Wintergreen

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 there 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,