Wicked Winters: A Collection of Winter Tales

by Lucy Smoke

  Lifting herself onto her knees, she held onto the waistband, stretching it as she raised her body. Pascal took over from there, shimmying out of his shorts. “These come off, too,” he told her, and with one swift tug, yanked the borrowed shorts below her ass.

  Shira leaned to one side, extracting one foot and then the other before she lowered herself onto his hips again. His cock was nestled between them, and she cupped it with her hand. His skin was just as hot here, and the tip red.

  As she watched, a bead of precum leaked from his slit, rolling along his length.

  “Fuck, Shira,” he said, fingers digging into her hips. “What you do to me.” He rocked her, pushing her body away and then toward him.

  It felt right.

  But she needed more.

  Lifting again, she held him in place so she could sink onto him. She was wet, but he was big, and it had been a long—a very long—time for her.

  “Relax,” he whispered. She tried, really she did, but he had her in knots. She wanted him inside her, wanted to ease the ache that was growing out of control.

  Pascal held her gaze, and placed his thumb in his mouth. His cheeks hollowed as he sucked. Withdrawing it slowly, he lowered his hand between their bodies, and circled her clit.

  “Oh.” All at once, her muscles relaxed. He thrust upward as she lowered onto him even further.

  They stayed that way for a heartbeat—gazes locked—as close as two people could be.

  Pascal took her hands, one at a time, and placed them on his chest. “Are you going to move, beautiful? Or are you going to torture me?” he asked, and then he smiled.

  His smile was breathtaking. Shira leaned over to his kiss him. He took control of the kiss and rocked her. “I’m begging…”

  Shira rolled her hips forward. It was all the encouragement Pascal needed. Breathless, their movements were a perfect counter to the other. Everything was a blur of sensation. His mouth at her breast. His hands in her hair. His cock buried inside her.

  The ache spread, encompassing every part of her. When she thought she couldn’t take it anymore, that she’d lose her mind if the pressure wasn’t somehow released, Pascal dipped his hand between them again and pinched her clit.

  With a cry, she came, hips jerking, muscles spasming. Heat flooded her as Pascal came inside her.

  Dumb, dumb, dumb.

  No condom.

  But God, it felt so good. She’d never let feeling overtake safety, and now she had. And she couldn’t bring herself to regret it.

  Boneless, she collapsed onto Pascal’s chest. He smoothed his hand down her back, and then to her hair, flicking it over her shoulder. “I’m not sorry,” he said. His voice was fierce. What was he talking about? “Not for any of it. We came here to do what we needed to do, and we met you. It’s all going to work out.”

  A bubble of unease grew in Shira’s chest. Why did it sound like Pascal trying to convince himself of that sentiment?

  Despite somewhat diminishing the glow Shira had felt, she kissed Pascal’s neck. “It will.” It had to.

  Someone knocked on the door, rousing Shira from the nest she’d made around herself and Pascal. “They’re back.”

  “Yaphet,” Pascal told her, and with a kiss on the top of her head, stood up, completely uncaring about his nakedness.

  But Shira was hypnotized. His muscles flexed as he bent to pull up his shorts and his abs contracted as he yanked a shirt over his head. Wishing she was as unselfconscious, Shira stayed beneath the covers when she hiked her shorts over her hips.

  “Here.” Pascal tossed her a t-shirt. Once it was on, she stood, staring at him awkwardly. Yaphet had said they were back. That must mean Ravi and Dov. What would it mean when she went out there and met Ravi’s eyes? Surely he would know as soon as he looked at her what she’d done.

  “It will be okay,” Pascal said. “I can feel your worry. It’s going to be fine.”

  He sounded so confident, Shira couldn’t help but smile.

  In their semi-dressed state, they left the room.

  Pascal had been overly positive in his definition of “fine.” From the moment Shira’s gaze clashed with Ravi’s, she could see, he was not fine. He looked from her to Pascal, eyes narrowing. “Why?” he asked.

  “Ravi.” Pascal held up both hands. “It’s going to be fine.”

  “Fine?” Ravi yelled. She’d never heard him yell. Shira had seen Ravi sad, and quiet, and sweet, but never angry. His dark skin suffused with a deep red. Balling his hands into fists, he shook his head. He glanced away from Pascal and met her gaze. “How could you do this?”

  What had she done?

  “Stop it, Ravi. Just because I’ve been with Shira doesn’t mean she doesn’t care about you.”

  “It’s exactly what it means!” he yelled. He raked his hands through his hair. “After everything, Pascal. Everything I told you. Everything we did. I—” Ravi spun. He stormed from the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

  Horrified, Shira stared after him.

  Pascal took her hand. “I’ll explain. Don’t freak out.” His voice had taken on that commanding quality again. Shira found herself at a loss, and with no other options, nodded her head. With a gentle kiss, Pascal shoved his feet into boots. He picked up a coat from the back of the couch and shrugged it on. “I’ll be right back,” he said and left.

  In shorts.

  In the dead of winter.

  “Pascal and Ravi will work it out,” Yaphet said. “Though you certainly complicated everything.” His tone wasn’t judgmental, but it was exhausted. “I am impressed with Pascal’s turn-around. One minute suspicious, the next…”

  Shira shut her eyes, collapsing onto the couch. Oh, she'd messed things up but good. So much for her epiphany.

  “I should go after Ravi,” she said.

  “Actually,” Dov said, “my grandmother wants to see you. She’s not doing well, and asked if you’d visit.”

  “Yes.” Shira lunged to her feet. “My clothes…” Dov handed her a canvas tote she recognized as coming from her apartment. “Yaphet got you some clothes.”

  Her building had a locked entrance.

  “How…Never mind. Give me two minutes.” Shira took the bag into the bathroom. Dressing quickly in the clothes Yaphet had gotten her, she tried to avoid thinking about what she’d done. But it was like telling someone, don’t think about green dogs. They automatically thought about green dogs. There was nothing for it.

  After scrubbing her teeth with her finger and the toothpaste she found in the cabinet, Shira was ready.

  Dov and Yaphet already wore their coats and stood by the doors. They’d been talking quietly, but when she left the bathroom, they stopped. “Ready?” Yaphet asked.

  “Yes,” she answered.

  “I want to warn you,” Dov began as they walked out. He paused to lock the door before speaking again. “My grandmother took a turn for the worse late last night.”

  “She was so energetic,” Shira said. How could someone go from cooking a meal for Hanukkah to whatever she was about to see?

  “It’s common. Often, in the days before someone dies, they rebound. Everyone around them thinks they’ve made a miraculous recovery. But they haven’t. It was merely a respite before things deteriorate.” Dov gestured toward a small car parked across the street.

  She had a hard time imagining the tall and broad-shouldered brothers in such a car, but they folded themselves inside gracefully.

  Sliding into the back, Shira struggled to find the words to encapsulate the questions she had. “I didn’t know she was sick.” She finally settled upon.

  “She has cancer,” Yaphet said.

  Dov pulled into traffic, but Shira saw the way his hands tightened on the wheel. “She decided not to undergo treatment. She’d been through it twice before, and the chemotherapy and radiation took a toll on her. More than a toll. They sapped away the parts of herself that made her who she was. So when the cancer came back, she decided to end her days
the way she wanted. Surrounded by her family. In her own home.”

  “Palliative care,” Shira said aloud. “Did you come back here to take care of her?” she asked Dov.

  From the front seat, he nodded. “I came when she was diagnosed the first time. The move wasn’t wholly unselfish though. I’d wanted to live here, and thought this was the time to do it. My father and mother come when they can. In fact, they’re on their way now.”

  Shell-shocked, Shira stared out the window. It was evening. She’d slept the day away and then thrown herself at Pascal while Ravi, Dov, and Yaphet faced the end of their grandmother’s life.

  What kind of person was she?

  In spite of the evening traffic, they made it to their grandmother’s building in good time. Like the universe had known what little things could make this bearable, a parking spot was available right across the street. Dov pulled into it, and shut off the car.

  The three of them sat there in silence, staring up at the lights gleaming from the third floor of the building.

  “Ready?” Dov asked.

  Was he asking her? He shifted in his seat, glancing over his shoulder at her.

  “Yes,” she answered, and her voice cracked. Swallowing at the thickness in her throat, she tried again. “Yes.”

  The trip to the apartment was silent. Each of them lost in their own thoughts. As the elevator doors opened, Yaphet touched her arm gently. “Try to understand,” he said. “Our grandmother is a special person to us. She’s…”

  Shira smiled, remembering Pascal’s story about his grandfather and answered for him. “She’s the kind of woman a man lays eyes on, and immediately knows she’s meant to be his wife.”

  Yaphet pulled his glasses off his face. Without them shielding his gaze, Shira could make out how deeply he felt about his family. What was it that Ravi had said about his grandmother? “She’s everything.”

  “I understand,” Shira assured him. The door to the apartment opened before they could knock. An unfamiliar woman wearing Mickey Mouse scrubs and a kerchief around her bright red hair welcomed them inside. “She’s been asking about you.”

  “Pain level?” Dov asked, unbuttoning his coat and hooking it on the back of a chair.

  “She says it’s a six, but she hit the morphine button a lot this morning. I think she’s been waiting for you to come back before she hits it again. Is this Shira?” The woman’s kind blue eyes landed on her. “Sarah’s spoken about you a lot. I’m sorry I missed you last night, but Sarah demanded I spend Hanukkah with my family. I’m Ruth.”

  Shira held out her hand, and the woman took it. “Nice to meet you,” she said, except it wasn’t, was it? She didn’t want this to be the way she met people, on the deathbed of a lovely old woman.

  It was as if the last night had never happened. The only sign a celebration had taken place was the lingering smell of fried oil, and the menorah, unlit, in front of the window.

  A door she hadn’t noticed earlier stood open, and when Ruth gestured for her to go inside, Shira did.

  Dov and Yaphet were right. The change in Sarah was drastic and startling.

  The rosy-cheeked woman, who yesterday seemed the definition of health and vitality, had disappeared. Sitting propped by pillows, Sarah still held herself regally, but her posture seemed stiff, like it pained her to stay upright.

  “Let the girls talk a bit,” she said, her voice a little bit breathy.

  Dov and Yaphet waited behind her. “We’ll be in the living room,” Dov said.

  Sarah nodded, but gestured to Shira. “Come in. Close the door.”

  Yaphet touched her arm before he left. “Remember what I told you?”

  Overwhelmed, and lost, Shira assured him she did. Dov stared at her, and with a last, loaded glance at Yaphet whispered, “I hope Pascal was right.”

  The door closed behind them, and Shira was left alone with Sarah. “Sit down, sweetheart.”

  There was a comfy looking armchair with an afghan next to the bed. Shira sat on the edge, taking the woman’s hand. “You shouldn’t have gone to all that work last night,” she found herself saying, and winced. It was as if Shira’s grandmother had channeled herself into Shira and spoken through her lips.

  Sarah burst out laughing. “If I wasn’t sure you were Abigail’s granddaughter before, that would have clinched it.”

  “Guess so,” Shira agreed, but it felt good to smile. After all the mistakes she’d made, and all the wrong turns she’d taken, here she could just be.

  “I want to talk to you about my grandsons,” Sarah said. Her green eyes blazed. Though Ravi and Dov had inherited their color, the intensity was pure Pascal. “They’ll do anything for their family. Anything for me. Move across the ocean, quit their jobs, give up promotions. Anything.”

  “They’re wonderful,” Shira agreed. Dov had come to her rescue, Ravi soothed her, and Pascal inflamed her. Yaphet remained a mystery, and while he knew next to nothing about her, he’d trusted her with something when he’d sent her in here. She didn’t know what it was yet, but she got the sense it was big.

  “They are,” Sarah said, “but they are also a little bit impulsive. Like their grandfather. Lucky for them, they have girls like us, level-headed girls, to keep them on the right path.”

  “I don’t know, Sarah,” Shira answered automatically. “I think I may have made an epic mistake.”

  The woman smiled slyly. The grin spread from one side of her face to the other, and she wagged a finger at her. “Oh, I think I know what you’ve done. But trust my boys. They’ll figure it out. They know a good one when they meet one.” She let her hand fall to the blanket of the bed like it took too much energy to hold out anymore. “See the picture on my bureau, Shira? Could you get it for me?”

  Shira stood, walking to the lace covered furniture. A four-picture frame stood next to an old black and white photograph. Inside the frame, brightly colored school photographs pictured Ravi, Dov, Yaphet and Pascal as boys. Gap-toothed and tanned, they looked like trouble.

  “The old one,” Sarah clarified.

  Carefully, Shira lifted it from the bureau. While she brought it to Sarah, she studied it. “Is this you?” she asked. “And your husband?”

  “Yes.” The woman took it with shaking hands before lying it to rest in her lap. “That’s us on our wedding day. He’s so handsome, isn’t he?”

  Leaning over, Shira studied it. “He looks like Pascal and Yaphet.”

  Sarah laughed. “He was very much like Pascal. Took my breath away and made me lose my head.” Her finger traced the man’s face lovingly. “He was German, you know. Had an adorable accent. Turned me to mush. And the mustache.” Sarah winked. “Very dashing.”

  The man smiled at the camera, hand resting on top of Sarah’s. She stared at the wedding cake they were cutting. She was happy, laughing.

  Looking at the two of them, Shira could see bits and pieces of all the guys. There was Ravi’s dimple, and Yaphet’s je ne sais quois.

  “My husband went back to Germany after the war,” she said, quietly. “His father, though he never would have left his home, wasn’t blind to what was coming. He had a safe deposit box. It survived after the war.”

  Shira had a hard time looking away from the photograph. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she thought she saw a tinge of Ravi’s sadness in his grandfather’s smile.

  “Top drawer,” Sarah said, nudging Shira.

  If Sarah wanted to share the history of her family, Shira was happy to listen. Standing, she glanced toward the door. “Do you want the guys to hear these stories, too?” she asked.

  The wooden drawer had warped with age, and Shira had to wiggle it open. Inside was a large manilla envelope. Tucking it carefully under her arm, she wiggled the drawer shut again and returned to Sarah.

  “Open it,” their grandmother directed.

  Sliding her finger beneath the lip of the envelope, Shira hesitated.

  “Go ahead,” Sarah repeated. When Shira folded it back, she w
ent on. “The boys know this story, but this is for you. You—like God heard my prayer and made you just for us—you’ll know what to do with it.”

  Glancing at her in confusion, Shira pulled out a pile of papers and photographs. Old sketches made on paper as thin as onion skins floated onto the bed. “What is this?” she asked, but she knew. As soon as she read the first words, written in loopy handwriting, she knew. They were provenances.

  “Will you take these?” Sarah asked. “And will you use them?”

  Shira studied them, reading quickly. “But where’s the artwork?” she asked. “The sculptures? The…” She read on and sucked in a breath. “The lamp?”

  Sarah relaxed into the pillows as if she’d deflated. Whatever energy had been buoying her disappeared. “I know it’s past sundown, Shira, but would you light the candles on the menorah for me?”

  Gesturing with her chin toward the window, Sarah’s gaze remained locked on Shira’s. With a steadying breath, Shira twisted in her seat.

  There. Aged bronze reflecting the warmth of electric light, was a perfectly made seventeenth century Hanukkah lamp. It held oil in its base, but also had eight drilled holes for eight candles. One for each night of Hanukkah.

  If Shira was to look closely, she’d see an etching of a menorah on its center.

  But she didn’t need to examine it to know it was there.

  Moment by moment, the entire situation fell into place: Director Lohse’s panic when she was unable to authenticate the provenances—of course she couldn’t, they were stolen. Not only were they stolen, they were stolen from the guys’ family by the Nazis during the war.

  Director Lohse knew exactly what these were. She remembered the conversation she’d overheard the day the pieces had arrived: “Get me the papers, Gottleib!” Those were the papers she was supposed to blindly authenticate. No wonder they’d chosen her to be curator. She was brand new to the art world. The perfect fall guy. Girl.

  And the mugging. Which one of the guys had done it? Who had thrust the gun against her ribs and told her to hand over her purse? Which one of them let her think she was about to die?

  Ravi’s apologies…now, they made sense. Over and over he’d said, “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I’m so sorry this happened.” The entire time, he’d known.