Wintergreen

by Jennifer Greene

  For now, the two men were analyzing the latest crisis in the Middle East, Johnny was busy not fidgeting and Lorna took the chance to study the man at the head of the table. Richard Whitaker was a strikingly handsome man with a head of silvery white hair and deep-set dark eyes. Nearing seventy, he looked a young fifty; his retirement had been by choice. Her former father-in-law had honest charm and a devastating, rattlesnake tongue, both of which he could turn on and off at will. His actions sprang from an integrity that was deep-seated, unassailable and fierce. Richard Whitaker, Sr., judged everyone by a set of rigid standards. He either loved or hated.

  Lorna took a sip of the dark red wine in the crystal goblet. She remembered well how her husband’s father had loved her at first, taking her in like a beloved daughter, lavishing affection and presents and compliments on her. She remembered, just as well, how in desperation she had gone to her father-in-law when Richard had first accused her of infidelity. She had been so certain that he cared for her, so certain he would listen… He had listened-for five minutes. Then he had turned on her with all the venom of a hanging judge in the courtroom. He had spoken only a few concise, searing sentences about her morals and character, about how fast he wanted his son rid of her…

  “Misha…”

  She set down her fork and met Matthew’s dark eyes across the table. Those eyes were like a lifeline: Please, her own eyes begged him.

  You have never looked lovelier, Misha, his eyes told her. Your chin’s up, and your eyes are full of courage. Put the past behind you. For our sake.

  “While you and Dad savor an after-dinner brandy, I’ll take Johnny downstairs and show him the train.”

  Lorna’s shoulders squared as she stood up with the others. Johnny was chattering a mile a minute as Matthew laid a hand on his shoulder and ushered him to a door that led downstairs and out of sight. Her eyes trailed after them for a moment before she glanced at Mr. Whitaker.

  “Would you like a brandy?” he inquired pleasantly.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  She knew the way through the front hall and past the living room into the sunken rectangular porch that had been converted long ago into a second living room, less formal than the first, where Mr. Whitaker always took his after-dinner drink. She descended the three steps and seated herself in a navy corduroy chair near the window. The room was all navy and gold, with tall arched windows and valuable oil paintings on the walls. The carpet was so thick it was difficult to resist taking off one’s shoes. Lorna had been there many times.

  Mr. Whitaker handed her a snifter of brandy and seated himself in the chair across from her. The amber liquid had already been heated, and Lorna studied the golden hue in her glass.

  “The train’s been a hobby of the Whitaker men for generations,” he commented. “Each generation adds to it.”

  “I remember.”

  Mr. Whitaker took a sip of brandy and set down the glass. He was assessing Lorna from head to toe. She could feel it. He took in the silk-soft hair and nervous gray eyes, the Christmassy green blouse and trim-fitting white skirt. “You haven’t changed, Lorna,” he said, as if relinquishing any effort at small talk.

  “You haven’t either,” she said honestly.

  “I keep fit. Golf, hunting and just walking.” He paused. “Matthew tells me you work as a translator, and the boy-”

  “Don’t,” she interrupted quietly, “say anything that will hurt my son. Not now. Not ever. I don’t care what you consider to be the truth.”

  The gauntlet was down. Surprise flickered in his eyes first, then anger, but Lorna didn’t avert her eyes from the level stare that was clearly intended to be intimidating.

  “Don’t you think that was a little unfair?” he suggested coldly.

  “It may have been,” she agreed evenly. “Where my son is concerned, I really don’t care about that.” For the first time since she had walked in the door, she relaxed. She’d known how he felt that first instant their eyes met, but she didn’t realize how very much she had changed over the years. She’d felt guilty simply because of being condemned a long time ago; that guilt was gone, and so was most of the animosity she’d harbored toward Richard’s father. “I didn’t want to disturb your holiday,” she said gently. “It wasn’t the day to do or say anything…upsetting to anyone. I don’t know what Matthew told you-”

  “That he’s in love with you.” Mr. Whitaker took another sip of brandy, leaned back and crossed his legs, regarding her from behind hooded eyes. “Matthew did not, of course, ask my opinion of the matter.”

  It shocked her to feel a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Matthew’s forte really wasn’t asking anyone’s opinion of anything. Mr. Whitaker evidently shared the same momentary thought, because Lorna could have sworn a glance of understanding passed between them.

  “You’re not happy,” she said, quietly.

  He hesitated, staring absently at the landscape of mountain and stream over the couch. “I never had any intention of being anything other than cordial toward you. Or your son.” He held the brandy glass in his hands as if they needed warming. “Matthew will go his own way no matter what I say. He always has.” He met her eyes and held them. “We’re not close. I think you know that, Lorna. He’s never agreed with certain things I’ve done over the years… I can’t really define why the closeness isn’t there, but nevertheless, he’s all I have. You think I never saw the feeling he had for you a long time ago? He didn’t even know he had it. To fight you now, Lorna-no. And I won’t fight Matthew on anything, because I’ll do nothing that would risk losing him. I’ll be seventy in a month, as you probably know.” He added bitterly, “I find it thoroughly offensive for you to suggest that I would do anything to hurt your child.”

  Lorna looked away from him. “You turned on me, once.”

  “I turned on you to protect my younger son against what I felt you did to him, were doing to him.” Mr. Whitaker’s tone was rigid, uncompromising. “Don’t tell me you don’t understand that, Lorna. I can see the way you are with your own son.”

  “Yes.” It was just a whisper. Her head suddenly ached miserably. It would be so much easier if she could see Mr. Whitaker as an enemy, but unfortunately she could understand exactly how he had felt when he had so brusquely rejected her a long time ago. She herself had so mindlessly and instantly defended Johnny on the small matter of a broken window-a minor issue next to what Mr. Whitaker had faced nearly a decade ago. “You don’t want to think that Richard made a mistake,” she said quietly. “I understand that, Mr. Whitaker. I know how a parent can feel…fiercely protective of a child.” She hesitated, then added passionately, “But you must try to believe me, because it matters so much. Johnny is your grandson.”

  He stood abruptly and set down his brandy glass. “You’ve grown from a girl into a woman, haven’t you, Lorna? If you want a compliment, I would even say a fine, strong woman.”

  Her eyes met his.

  “I can respect that. And if Matthew had fallen in love with a stranger, a woman who had a child by a previous marriage, I would have been prepared to welcome them both into this house. In the same way, you are welcome here.” He stared at her, his jaw rigid, those dark eyes boring into hers. “Just be very sure,” he said in a low voice, “that you do nothing to hurt my son.”

  She realized that he was honestly prepared to go much further than she had ever dreamed of. If no trust, at least there was no animosity. He only wanted to pretend they were strangers, that was all…but it wasn’t enough. She rose, not quite understanding why she felt all choked up and desperate. “Excuse me, would you please?” she said, but Mr. Whitaker was no longer looking at her. He was staring out the window at a crisp, snowy day. Christmas Day-a day of reconciliation. But there was no real reconciliation-no forgiveness of sins, actual or imagined-here.

  Chapter 12

  Lorna’s heels made small indentations in the carpet as she hurried away from Richard Whitaker, Sr., toward the basement steps. She stopped t
here and put trembling fingers to her temples, deciding a quick touch-up of her makeup and hair was in order before she faced Matthew and Johnny.

  Smiling brightly in the kitchen at Mrs. Harris, who had prepared such a marvelous Christmas dinner, Lorna wended her way around the table and closeted herself in the pink-tiled bathroom off the foyer. A pinched, ashen face stared back at her in the mirror. Haunted silvery eyes, huge and wild. She applied lipstick, washed her hands, brushed her hair, then washed her hands again. The repetition of the motion reminded her of Lady Macbeth and she smiled grimly to herself. She did not need all the perfumes of Arabia-or even a fresh dousing of Lily of the Valley-to sweeten her little hands. She was innocent of any wrongdoing, she didn’t care whatever Mr. Whitaker thought. Johnny had gotten along all this time without a grandfather; he didn’t need one now.

  She didn’t feel like crying.

  Everything was fine. She understood all the subtleties of her conversation with Richard Whitaker, Sr., Master Attorney, Ret. Matthew would never guess that his father harbored any negative feelings for Lorna, because those feelings would never show. In front of Matthew. Mr. Whitaker valued his son too much. And maybe at some level he realized that his elder son had a great deal more strength and character than his younger son had possessed, that Matthew would never allow his wife to stray down the decadent path to other men’s beds.

  Stop it, she told her reflection in the mirror furiously. What do you care anymore? Why can’t you just put it behind you?

  She returned the makeup items to her purse. Just be very sure you do nothing to hurt my son. She straightened her skirt, smoothed down the front of her blouse, checked her stockings for runs, pasted a brilliant smile on her face and unlocked the bathroom door.

  She descended the steep stairs to the basement slowly. Below she could hear the chortle of Johnny’s laughter and the steady hum of the electric train. Pausing at the bottom of the stairs, she leaned back against the white-painted wall and folded her arms. Her head was aching and her heart was still beating in a terrible, painful rhythm that she refused to define, yet she could not help relaxing a little at the sight that greeted her.

  Matthew was on his hands and knees, as was Johnny; their rear ends faced her. The train was more than a few decades old; the engine was a good foot long and made all kinds of authentic old-time noises. The tracks led from the huge main storage room of the basement through the laundry rooms and pantries, and pack to the game room where she was standing now. It had to have taken Matthew days to set it up. Tunnels and crisscrossed tracks and flashing lights, makeshift hills and valleys and switchyards… She shook her head, debating who was the happier child of the two.

  Matthew moved and caught sight of her. She decided abruptly that she was mistaken to label him a child. His dark eyes seared hers, assessing so perceptively that she felt stripped and laid bare; she saw a flash of anger in those depths, and knew she had to do a better job of covering up her emotions. She would not be responsible for a rift between father and son, nor could she blame Mr. Whitaker for her own desperately unhappy mood.

  “Misha.”

  She smiled brightly, stepped over the track and crouched between the two of them. “I don’t believe this!” she said enthusiastically, eyes thanking him for the trouble he had gone to for Johnny.

  “Mom! This thing can go a zillion miles an hour. Just watch!”

  She watched. It seemed to run smoothly at a million miles per hour, but cracked up in a terrible pile at a zillion. Johnny burst into chuckles, and crawled along the floor on his knees to fix it. “On the curves, you have to go a little slower,” he explained.

  “I don’t suppose you’d let a female run it,” Lorna wondered idly.

  Johnny’s head was down. “Some females, yes. You, no.”

  “Johnny!”

  Johnny’s eyes darted up at Matthew’s stern admonition. “You just don’t know her that well. You can’t let Mom near things like this,” he explained. “I wasn’t being fresh, Matthew.”

  “I do believe we can allow her one turn at the controls, even if she isn’t particularly mechanical,” Matthew said dryly.

  Johnny shook his head and shrugged. “It’s your train.” He brought the controls over to his mother and explained in nauseatingly exact detail what to do. If Matthew hadn’t been biting his lip to keep from laughing, Lorna might have been tempted to rearrange her adorable son’s nose. She started the train by pulling the lever, and watched it zoom and curve until it was out of sight. It was chugging along perfectly, tooting and smoking at interesting intervals, switching and backing up…until her heel caught on one of the electric wires and all the lights went out.

  When they went on again, she saw that Matthew had put his head in his hands. Johnny looked only at Matthew. “I’m not going to say I told you so because you’re a grown-up,” Johnny informed Matthew. “I have better manners than that.”

  “Let’s take her home,” Matthew suggested.

  “Couldn’t you just send her back upstairs again? She can talk to Mr. Whitaker.”

  Matthew stole another glance at Lorna. She thought she’d had him fooled, because she knew her own laughter had been real in those few short minutes. There had been honest pleasure just in being with both of them. Yet Matthew continued to stare intently at her, and seemed to see beyond her smile and the banter with her son. “It’s getting late,” he insisted quietly to Johnny. “I guarantee you can come back and see this another day.”

  By the time they got home, Johnny and Matthew were hungry again. It was dark, and Lorna put out some of the feast she’d intended to serve for Christmas dinner for herself and her son. Lopsided Christmas cookies, gaily decorated; a green molded salad with cherries and tiny candies inside; dips with crackers and fresh vegetables… It was not exactly a nutritious snack. Certainly not served with sparkling Burgundy and Johnny’s Boston Cooler.

  Her towheaded urchin, never one to let a subject die a natural death, brought the two Zoids to the kitchen table. His own lurched and threatened in terrible menace from its four-inch height, while hers fell over with every third step. Matthew just looked at her.

  “There are many, many men who aren’t in the least mechanical,” she informed both of them.

  “He’s only nine years old,” Matthew reminded her.

  Johnny had a few more choice bits of information to impart before Lorna finally got him to bed, kissed him seven times, hugged him for a while and left him to his almost-ten male-chauvinist solitude.

  By the time she returned to the living room, Matthew had lit a fire in the fireplace, pushed most of the debris behind a chair and removed his sweater; he was reclining, shoes off, on the couch. “Come over here,” he suggested, patting the inch and a half of empty space next to him.

  She smiled, curling at the bottom of the couch instead with her feet tucked up under her. “For some unknown reason, I’m so tired I can hardly move,” she admitted.

  He nudged her calf with his foot, and when she failed to respond simply sat up and took her back down with him, not content until her head was tucked into the crook of his shoulder and her legs were captured beneath one of his. She couldn’t move. She had the feeling that was exactly what Matthew had intended, that he had watched her exhibition of restless energy since they had come back from his father’s and correctly interpreted all of it.

  With his hand on her hip, he kissed the crown of her chestnut hair. “I think you’re wine-tired,” he whispered teasingly. “Two glasses, Misha. You’re quite a drinker.”

  “Don’t you start.”

  “Johnny tells me that you can swear in several languages. Can you?”

  “I have never sworn in front of that child in my entire life.”

  “Except in German. And Russian.”

  Lorna sighed, curling closer to him, rubbing her cheek against the soft white shirt fabric near his shoulder. “What else did the little monster tell you?” she murmured dryly.

  “We don’t much like men who to
uch our mother, now, do we? And we’re more than capable of taking care of you all on our own. We like friends to take us both out on outings. For example, hockey games. Seeing toy trains. Maybe tobogganing…” Matthew sighed. “I didn’t touch you throughout dinner, did I? Not even when we were downstairs together. I can’t imagine why I like the little imp. I know darn well he’s waging war.” A wry smile touched Matthew’s features, but his eyes told her he was serious. “It is a war, Misha, but not to worry. It will just take some time to convince him he can’t lose for winning. I’ll be patient.”

  She thought fleetingly how typical that was of Matthew, to let her know he understood Johnny’s possessive instincts, and by treating the subject lightly to also let her know that she could trust his handling of it.

  He seemed to handle a great many things well. Her temples, for instance, where a headache raged tense and tight; his thumb rubbed caressingly back and forth, soothing away the pain she had never even mentioned to him. And her lips, for another. When his mouth sank deliciously on hers, she felt something give inside her that had been knotted up for hours. Feelings of hopelessness and helplessness, a residue from the past she thought she’d managed to get rid of; the wounds that had seared open again after her encounter with his father.

  Her hands rippled through his hair, and her aching breasts nuzzled deliberately against his chest as she curled closer to him. He tasted so sweet; she wanted to lose herself in that sweetness. Before, she had forgotten everything else when he touched her; she courted that kind of explosive passion now, her hands rippling down his shoulders and arms, then to the front of his shirt, suddenly in a desperate hurry to get past buttons.

  Buttons? To get past pain, past thought, past this strange aching ball of hurt inside her that refused to ease. She wanted to love Matthew, to promise him that she would never make him suffer, to wrap him up in silk arms and satin smoothness. She could feel his dark, soft eyes watching her, and paid no attention. Her already turbulent emotions had been set on a roller coaster. There was no getting off. She felt panic at the thought of getting off. She needed Matthew so badly, now, this minute, instantly, an hour ago…