her wince. There was something about a weekend that always seemed to bring out the restlessness in a child. Cartoons were blaring from a television set in the other room; a fleet of matchbox cars stood in a line on the kitchen table; and for some unknown reason Johnny was tossing a football up in the air as if the snow weren’t three inches thick outside.

“Freda says if you want me off your hands for the day, she’s willing to take the two of us over to the Science Institute. There’s a thing there about whales. Then maybe she’ll take us Christmas shopping. Can I go?”

“Sure.” Lorna smiled at him as she set his plate on the table. “Only not like that.”

“Like what?”

She explained patiently. “Your socks don’t match, that sweatshirt has three holes in it and your jeans are patched. Why don’t you put on your gray pants.”

He made a face as if she’d suggested he take castor oil. She sat down across from him and took a life-giving gulp of coffee. She was actually waking up, more the pity.

Matthew was miles away, undoubtedly sleeping in the expensive condominium where he must have taken his share of women to sleep with him over the years. Women who didn’t have to wake him up in the middle of the night to take them home to their offspring. The evening of music and laughter and lovemaking seemed a year ago, a precious dream.

Reality was a cramped orange-and-almond kitchen, a towhead son with a cowlick, a houseful of toys to clean up and a translating job to do this morning. Guilt was raging in her head like an out-of-control fever, alternating with shame, as she poured herself a second cup of coffee. How could she have forgotten Johnny? How could she have slept with Matthew, the first evening they’d spent together, acting just as loose as he’d thought she was when she was nineteen? Was that any way to build trust? Matthew had nothing to lose in an affair, while she had everything to lose. Her self-respect, for example. Johnny could be pulled into the middle…

“What are you so quiet for?” Johnny demanded, with his mouth full of food. “Were you out late last night?”

“I came in early, actually,” Lorna answered. Which was, of course, the truth. Early this morning.

“Was he nice to you?”

Lorna stood up and took her son’s empty plate to the counter. “Very nice. We heard some music,” she said flatly. Please leave it, sweetheart.

Johnny studied her covertly as he swiped at his mouth with a napkin. She could visualize the slight frown on his forehead even if she wasn’t directly looking at him. Oversensitive as he was, she knew Johnny sensed that something differentiated Matthew from the other men she had dated. He just didn’t quite know what to do about it. “How come you let me call him Matthew?” he asked finally. “Everyone else, it’s supposed to be Mister this or Mister that.”

She forced herself to look directly at her son. “His last name is Whitaker, Johnny. Didn’t I mention it?” His jaw dropped, with a host of questions all ready. She thought, I can’t handle this. “It isn’t as common a name as Smith, but it’s not uncommon either. It just happens we all share the last name.” If he asked her directly if they were related, she would probably cry. Though she didn’t feel ready to tell him the whole truth, she could not conceive of telling her son a blatant lie. See what you got into, she told her conscience.

“You gonna see him again?” Johnny asked.

“I may.”

He sighed, scowling at her petulantly. Lorna usually had more laughter and conversation for him; she enjoyed her son. He got up from the kitchen chair to go back into his bedroom to change for his outing, but he hesitated, fidgeting in the doorway. “Did he like me, Mom?” he asked carefully. “I mean, from the time he had dinner with us.”

Her heart wrenched, tying itself up in knots. “Did I get my morning hug, urchin?” she asked suddenly, and claimed it, wrapping her arms around her son and holding him tightly, until he squirmed. He grinned up at her.

“You two don’t know each other well enough to like or dislike each other, Johnny,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing to worry about. You come first with me, got that? Nothing and no one is ever going to make a difference for us. Now go change your clothes before Freda gets here.”

At one that afternoon Lorna was driving on a winding country road called Pontiac Trail. Sunlight glinted off the snowy landscape, creating a glare that made it difficult to read the numbers on the mailboxes. Directions weren’t Lorna’s strong point at the best of times, but on her third pass she located 2257 and turned into the narrow gravel drive.

She stopped the car a hundred yards farther on, rather surprised at the stables and brand-new A-frame in front of her. From the crisp, cultured voice of the man she’d spoken to on the phone, she’d rather idly expected an ivy- covered cottage and an English garden-covered with snow.

Stepping from the car, she automatically checked to make sure her chignon was in place and her coat neat, then snatched up her small briefcase and headed toward the door. It opened just as she raised her hand to push the bell. “Mrs. Whitaker? I was beginning to worry about you.”

“Make it Lorna, please, and I’m terribly sorry I’m late. It’s not that I didn’t start out in plenty of time-”

“It doesn’t matter. Let me get you a cup of coffee. I’d like to talk to you for a minute before you meet my mother.”

“Fine.”

He took her coat, escorted her to a pine-paneled contemporary living room and brought coffee a moment later. Lorna studied the man absently while he poured her a cup of the dark brew. His name was Stan Valicheck. He looked to be in his early forties, a spare, neat man, wearing loose corduroy pants in the European style and a navy blue crewneck sweater. He had kind eyes, something Lorna always noticed first in a person, and their brown color almost exactly matched the shade of his hair.

“My mother used to know your father-that’s why I looked you up, Lorna. I think I told you that on the phone…”

Lorna nodded, aware she was being thoroughly assessed. He seemed to approve of her simple cranberry wool slacks and matching sweater; she could tell that he liked the neat chignon. She guessed he was single from the speculation in his eyes, but there was nothing offensive about his perusal. He moved easily, as if he’d never had a trace of nerves in his life.

He sat down across from her. “For three years, my mother’s been working on this book, about her childhood in Russia. I just let her be-it gave her something to do. She’s been lonely in this country, what with the language barrier.”

“I understand,” Lorna said compassionately.

He nodded, smiling wryly. “But now that she’s done with the manuscript, she’s intent on getting it published. Frankly, Lorna, I haven’t the least idea if it’s excellent or terrible-I can’t read a word of Russian. To please her, I’m willing to have it translated. I didn’t want to discuss the fees with you on the phone because I wanted to explain. What I had in mind was a flat five thousand. If by some chance the story proves to be worth something, I’d be willing to add to that. I’m trying to be honest with you, though, there’s no counting on more. And just as frankly, I couldn’t care less about the financial success of the venture. I have only my mother’s happiness on my mind. And maybe preserving the story of her past for posterity.”

Lorna leaned forward, touched by his attitude toward his mother. “Please understand, I’m grateful for the chance to work on this. I’ve written sewing-machine instructions in four languages, composed travel brochures, described computers and electronics component systems, but I’ve never translated literature, and frankly, I may not even be qualified. I am enthusiastic about the project, though, because I was raised on Russian folklore and the Russian feeling for life. Through my father. And I’d like to tell you I would put your mother’s book before everything else. But as I said on the phone, I do have regular commitments.”

And Matthew’s nest egg was bothering her, though obviously she couldn’t tell Stan Valicheck that. In principle that was money due Johnny, but emotionally, Lorna still felt unhappy about it, guilty that she hadn’t been able to salt away any savings on her own. Security mattered; she never knew how much until her father died, until she was alone with no one to turn to when Johnny needed something she couldn’t provide. With this job, even if she had to work nights to fit it in with her other commitments, she could either put her earnings in the bank or begin to pay back Matthew.

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