Wintergreen

A real friend would have committed her. Where were her real friends when she needed them? Now she remembered that Johnny was capable of taking an instant dislike to any man who walked in the door, that meat loaf was not exactly a gourmet dish fit for a Whitaker, that she had no tactful way to explain Matthew’s last name to her son, and that the only thing she wanted to talk to Matthew about- Johnny-was the only subject that was clearly forbidden.

And Matthew… What he’d been thinking of, she just didn’t know. She’d never really understood him. So often after she and Richard were first married, he would pop over for dinner, even though he knew what a terrible cook she was. Occasionally, he would appear for an evening the same way, unconsciously smoothing troubled waters between herself and Richard when he couldn’t possibly know there were troubled waters; seemingly, he had come for a cup of coffee and conversation. Lorna had always thought he should have been spending his free evenings with an attractive blonde on his arm. Or brunette. Whatever his choice. All right, for some strange reason she and Matthew had always had a certain rapport, but that was before…

Before Richard had found her in a compromising position with another man. And it couldn’t have been much more compromising, she reminded herself wearily as she set the cruise control and tried to relax for the trip home.

Eight and a half months after that episode, one blond baby had been born to two brunette parents. She had never cheated on Richard, but her word was not fact, and the Whitakers were sticklers for facts. Perhaps she could have fought the divorce, but the only fact she could have presented to any of them was a picture of herself as a child. A towhead, like Johnny, and like her mother and grandfather, all of whom had turned into brunettes as teenagers. So she could have produced a photograph, and she could even have subjected her baby to a paternity test, but Johnny’s paternity was really only a moot point by then. She knew Richard had been looking for an excuse to divorce her. Faith, love, trust had all gone by the wayside; there was no marriage left to fight for by the time the child was born.

Richard was overly possessive and fiercely jealous-qualities that seemed to come with the male Whitaker genes. Richard, Sr., had at first treated her like a daughter…and later had treated her like scum. It was like turning over a record and finding on the flip side the ugly qualities in the men whom she had once cared for so much, whom she had trusted, who had trusted her…

She hadn’t given Matthew the chance to hurt her as Richard and his father had. Matthew had tried to get her to talk; in retrospect, she could see that for a long time he had tried to help her through the turbulent marriage. Always kind, often there, perceptive and calming… Richard had found it amusing that his formidable older brother had taken a little sister under his wing. But when push came to shove, Lorna had shut Matthew out. She was angry and frightened and young. Mr. Whitaker’s contempt had hurt her to the core; contempt from Richard… Well, the end of the marriage had changed her whole life. To risk contempt from Matthew…it was too frightening, in some subtle way she never defined; she simply refused to lay herself open to it. It was easier just not to speak to him. Perhaps she knew unconsciously that there was some point at which she might completely break apart, splinter into a thousand little pieces…

And you wanted to get involved with him again?

Yes, she finally admitted wearily to herself. Yes. The marriage had scarred her, and badly. For many years, she hadn’t had the energy or the desire to pursue a relationship with another man. Then, about two years ago, she had become aware not only that her son needed a father, but also that she had strong sexual and emotional needs that couldn’t forever be sublimated in work and daydreams.

Fine. She’d discovered very quickly that most men really weren’t all that eager to take on a woman and a half-grown son. Yet there were some. Enough so that at twenty-nine she was not particularly pleased to find herself turning into a tease. When a man came on too strong, all she could think of was that he might judge her easy, as Richard had judged her; that she was again putting herself into a position where she could be condemned without a trial, that she would be left vulnerable, without defenses…

She was not guilty. She was tired of feeling guilty. For Johnny’s sake, and for her own, she wanted the truth spoken out loud, t’s crossed and i’s dotted.

So simple. So painfully simple. Yet Lorna’s plans had gone haywire the moment Matthew had walked into his office. Matthew was not her brother-in-law anymore. He wasn’t acting like a brother; she couldn’t seem to feel that he was a brother…Leave it, she told herself. Serve him dinner and just try…

She pulled into the driveway of her apartment building, snatched up her purse and opened the car door just as Matthew pulled up behind her. The biting wind whipped her coat open around her legs. “Turn up the thermostat out here, will you?” she shouted back to Matthew.

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about, Misha. You should be glad there are no mosquitoes.” He pushed up the collar of his coat and dug his hands in his pockets as he followed her to the front door.

Why was she shivering now that they were inside? The tiny vestibule seemed crowded with the two of them hanging up their coats. Matthew’s arm brushed hers, and she felt surrounded suddenly, by his arms that seemed to be everywhere, by the almost-familiar scent of his aftershave, by the physical power that seemed to vibrate around him. Snow still glistened in his hair, and when she turned from the closet she had a sense of deja vu as if she had once raked her fingers through his damp hair, though of course she hadn’t. Their eyes met, but only for an instant.

When he looked away, Lorna wondered vaguely if she was coming down with the flu. Something was definitely wrong with her. Her pulse was beating out of control, and Matthew had the oddest look in his eyes… She stepped into the living room ahead of him. “Feel free to look around,” she suggested lightly. “I just need a minute to brush my hair, then I’ll get us both a drink.”

He wasn’t in the kitchen when she came out of the bathroom, for which she was grateful. Except for some wine and a little brandy, she didn’t stock much liquor in the house, and had no desire to be caught standing on a chair fetching the wineglasses. She was just putting the chair back in place when he showed up in the doorway. “The place looks like you, Misha,” he commented lazily. “Ten thousand plants and a dozen half-read books and all soft colors-”

“I don’t understand it,” Lorna admitted wryly. “When I look at a decorating magazine, I always love the spacious, serene stuff, yet my own house ends up thoroughly cluttered.” She tried to twist the corkscrew into the dusty bottle she’d found in the bottom cupboard.

“I’ll do that.” His hands closed on her hips, and he shifted her so he could work at the counter; she stared at him, startled at the slight intimacy. He glanced at her with just the faintest hint of a smile. “You haven’t gained any weight.”

“A few pounds.”

“Upstairs, then. There’s nothing extra downstairs.” He turned his attention to the wine bottle as she determinedly made a big business out of getting dinner ready, totally flustered by the comment. After Johnny was born, she had…developed. But Matthew had always been extremely proper in anything he’d ever said to her. She was surprised that he’d even noticed…

“You’re even more beautiful than I remembered, Misha. And I find that hard to believe.” He turned to offer her a glass of wine, his dark eyes expressive, yet unfathomable. “You were totally oblivious to it back then,” he said quietly. “You didn’t seem to know how beautiful you were. How special.”

She took the glass and gulped down half of the wine. So much for composure and poise, she thought idly, and refused to look at him. Stop feeling unhinged, she told herself. “You’ve done well for yourself, Matthew. I kept expecting to read in the papers that you’d married.” That sounded…wonderful. She gave herself a mental pat on the back. Cool, polite, proper conversation… She finished the wine, set the glass on the counter and put the meat loaf back in the refrigerator.

“Wasn’t that for dinner?”

“The refrigerator heats up faster than the oven,” she said blandly.

“I see.”

She regarded him with a brilliantly cheerful smile, daring him to make a single remark. But there was nothing. Just a wicked pair of dark eyes and another slash of a smile. She took the meat loaf out again and put it in the oven, tried to dredge up some pride for remembering to turn the dial on, and turned her attention to the potatoes. “We’ll have to eat in here,” she informed him. “I’m afraid the dining room’s been converted to an office for me. With only