Wintergreen

next to Matthew and motioned Johnny into the back of the sedan. The mutual laughter happened again as Matthew described the pitfalls he had encountered as a child trying to put together a train while hampered by a toddler brother in diapers.

Johnny described the pitfalls of putting together a Zoid, hampered by a very pretty woman in a white skirt and a Christmas-green blouse.

Lorna leaned back and relaxed as they drove. Almost as soon as she’d been aware of Johnny’s possessiveness, Matthew had handled it. It would go away, she believed, as Johnny got to know Matthew better, as he grew to like him. They both were more than halfway there. Meanwhile, Matthew drove over snow-mounded roads and past Christmas lights, decorated trees in picture windows, and people dressed for the holiday, laughing in expectation of seeing their families. The university was closed, lonely. She felt inclined to pick up the small dog she saw wandering as if lost in the road. She had an urge to soothe a small child she saw crying over a broken toy through a living room window. She felt exhilarated and high; she felt she could take on anything and win.

Matthew turned down a road that seemed vaguely familiar, though Lorna couldn’t quite place it. She sat up, though, giving him a curious look, wondering about his mysterious destination. She had put the tiny turkey back in the refrigerator; they didn’t have to be back at any set time, but this was turning into a rather long drive. She hadn’t traveled these roads in a very long time. Since…

He turned again, and she frowned. “Matthew?”

He reached over to cover her hand, but he didn’t look at her. Lorna stared at his profile, suddenly set in very determined lines. When he glanced back to answer a question from Johnny, he managed to throw a soft look in her direction, full of love.

He turned toward the road again. Her palm, nestled in his, suddenly turned damp, and she tried to pull it away. He wouldn’t let it happen, imprisoning hers that much more firmly. His fingers did the holding; his thumb tattooed a lazy, soothing caress on the inside of her wrist.

The spiked wrought-iron gates opened when Matthew flicked a button on the console of his car.

“Wow!” Johnny breathed. “Whose house is this?”

The drive cut through five acres of snow-covered lawn. At the end of it was a three-story gray stone house, tall and imposing in the wintery landscape. Lorna felt a tight and painful lump lodge in her throat. She wrenched her hand free from Matthew’s and clamped it to her side.

“It’s my father’s house,” Matthew told Johnny easily, darting a sharp glance toward Lorna. “The house where I grew up. We’ve got the electric train set up in the basement, and I think you’ll find my father is the perfect one to teach you to play chess.”

“Okay.” Johnny vaulted out of the car, full of enthusiasm and energy. Making him sit still for an hour was like trying to leash atomic energy.

Johnny closed the car door, leaving them in privacy. Lorna turned to Matthew with despairing eyes. “How could you do this to me?”

Those obsidian eyes of his were so soft, yet so full of steel. “Misha, I told you a long time ago that I didn’t give a damn what happened between Richard and you. That happened to two other people, a century ago. The only reason I didn’t call was because I knew damn well you didn’t want me to until you were convinced I was sure. I am sure. I love you. I believe in you, and I don’t want any more questions of that kind between us. What better time to show you than on Christmas Day-what better way to convince you than by bringing you here.”

She shook her head wildly, tears stinging her eyes. “Matthew, I can’t go in there. I don’t want to see your father. Do you know what he called me the last time I saw him? And to bring Johnny into it! You’re cruel,” she hissed, her temper rising. “Worse than cruel, Matthew. He doesn’t know-”

“And it’s not going to be easy for you,” Matthew agreed. He leaned over to brush the lone tear from her cheek and smooth back a strand of her hair that really didn’t need smoothing. “My father knows you and Johnny are coming. I told him the way it is, Misha. He doesn’t like any of it, but Misha…” His voice softened, though his eyes continued to have that no-give look to them. “You’re still back there, worrying a long time ago. You’ve got to get past it. I think this really is what you want, or what you need-to bury old ghosts. To give your son and my father at least a chance to have a relationship.”

She thought idly that the tone of ultimatum was familiar, even so gently delivered. She’d used it herself, when she’d told him they simply had no future if he wouldn’t trust her, believe in her. He wanted the same affirmation of faith, proof that her own feelings for him weren’t colored by the past. He’d tried to convey the symbolism by waiting until Christmas Day, by bringing her-and her son-here…

And it was true that for years she’d felt saddened by Johnny’s having a grandfather he could never know. She desperately wanted Richard’s son acknowledged if only for his own security, in the event something should happen to her. “But not today, Matthew,” she said desperately. “Not now. I need time…”

He shook his head, his eyes suddenly cold. “You’ve had nine years. You were innocent, Misha. That’s what you told me and what I believe. I trust you. But, there’s a lonely old man rattling around in that house who thinks he has no grandson, when he does, and has a right to get to know the boy-has deprived himself of that right for all this time.”

He put a fingertip on her lips when she tried to say something. “I know,” he said roughly. “I know exactly how my father feels. But you’re going to try. Because that’s what it’s going to take to put the past behind you.”

Johnny thumped a gloved fist on the window, his face peering in impatiently at them. “What are you two guys doing still sitting in the car? Come on!”

As they walked up to the house, Lorna shoved her gloveless hands in her pockets and stared straight ahead, her face pale. Johnny raced ahead of them, carrying the box that held his chess set, stomping his feet in front of the two huge oak doors.

Dread was pounding so hard in her temples that she couldn’t think. She stared up at the doors. No one could know what going back into this house again would cost her.

“Misha?”

She glanced at Matthew, her face as stiff and fragile as an alabaster statue.

“No one’s going to hurt you,” he whispered. “No one, Misha.”

The long dining table could have seated thirty. The serving dishes were sterling; the hand-painted china had been handed down through generations of Whitakers; the crystal was so expensive that Johnny seemed terrified to risk taking a sip of water. A lush poinsettia perched in the center of the table, flanked by tall, flickering white candles. Carved duckling and prime rib were served and then left on the table in case anyone should want second helpings.

Lorna kept watching her son out of the corner of her eye. In part, that was easier than risking eye contact with Matthew, who had lazily and easily included her in the conversation whether she wanted that or not. Eye contact with Matthew confused her. She resented him more in those moments than she had ever resented anyone in her life. Simultaneously she also loved him more than she had ever conceived of loving anyone. Eye contact with Richard Whitaker, Sr., was out of the question. She had known exactly where she stood with him the moment she shook his hand. That left Johnny.

Her son had been struck dumb the moment they’d walked into the gracious and elegant house, a situation so rare that Lorna normally would have been amused. More than that, she was ridiculously proud of him. No, he wasn’t certain which of three forks to choose, but the manners that counted were there. She felt a little like a lioness, as she casually lifted her fork to her mouth; she was prepared to protect her cub fiercely three seconds before anything could possibly threaten him.

No one had threatened him. She hadn’t walked in and said, “Mr. Whitaker, this is your grandson.” Mr. Whitaker hadn’t countered that by saying, “He isn’t, you adulteress.” Richard, Sr., had directed four polite questions to Johnny, which Johnny had answered while the rest of them sipped sparkling rose wine before being ushered in to dinner. Matthew was so good at controlling the conversation that no one really had a chance to say anything awkward.

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