Jennifer Greene - Wintergreen

In the bathroom, she creamed the makeup off her face, brushed her teeth and then took a brush to her shoulder-length hair. Unsmiling, she viewed her image in the mirror. Almond-shaped gray eyes stared back at her, large and dark-lashed. Her classical features were surrounded by a thick mane of dark red-brown hair that crackled under the hairbrush. Her figure was long-legged and long-waisted, her high breasts barely contained in a pale green camisole. She made no particular claim to beauty, but at twenty-nine she would have been foolish not to admit she had the kind of looks that attracted men. Knowing that brought Lorna no special pleasure. Her looks had netted her one husband named Richard Whitaker once upon a time; indirectly, those same looks had been responsible for losing him. But she didn’t want to think about Richard; she didn’t want to think about any of the Whitaker men. The only Whitaker who concerned her was one towheaded little urchin named Johnny.

She turned away, flicking out the light. Moonlight flooded the bedroom, casting long silver waves on the pale yellow comforter. She crawled into bed and curled up, though she knew she was too restless to sleep. Her worries about Johnny refused to go away. Other single parents seemed to manage just fine. Why couldn’t she? Freda was so positive that a man’s influence was all Johnny needed. Self-discipline wasn’t exactly a characteristic of nine-year-old boys, and Lorna was definitely not famous for her iron hand. When Johnny acted up, her urge was always to give him more love instead of more discipline, if only to make up for his not having a father.

Unfortunately, Johnny inhaled that love the way a sponge soaked up water, and then exhaled trouble. He was violent in every way. Violently loving, violently protective, violently defending his point of view until he was violently convinced he was wrong. Then he would perversely, and just as violently, stick to his guns.

Lorna smiled in the darkness, closing her eyes. She adored her son. But who ever heard of a fourth-grader being kicked out of school?

You’ve got to do something, her conscience ordered. The problem was what to do. There were so few options… A Whitaker face whirled in her head. The face was that of Richard’s brother, Matthew. She sent it furiously right back down to her subconscious. It resurfaced. She buried it again.

The image of Matthew Whitaker would never have come to haunt her if Johnny weren’t a Whitaker in every temperamental little bone in his body. Like should know what to do with like. Who else but a Whitaker could understand the family characteristics?

Richard had been dead a long time, and hell would freeze over before Lorna turned to either his father or his brother for help. But Johnny had needs that she couldn’t fulfill either emotionally or financially, and that reality was no small blow to her pride and fierce spirit of independence. The Whitakers had it all-money, power, a respected name-and Johnny was the only heir. Surely he had certain rights…

Irritably, Lorna punched the pillow and ordered herself to settle down. She didn’t know why she allowed herself to dwell on the subject of the Whitaker family.

The Whitakers didn’t believe that Johnny was Richard’s son. And they never would.

It was almost two months later that hell froze over. Literally, Lorna thought crossly as she did her best to control her ancient Camaro, which was bucking in the wind. She tried not to see the violent weather as a bad omen.

She’d grown up in the shadow of the University of Michigan where her father was a professor, and the attachment she felt to the small town of Ann Arbor was strictly a sentimental one. She loved it. Huge old brick buildings, ivy-covered, reeking with character and tradition, stood on tree-lined streets that climbed the gently rolling hills. In summer, the landscape was English-garden green; in spring, small blossoming trees sent out their fragrances in the shadow of larger oaks and maples; in winter, the snow piled up in Tudor doorways and casement windows with the picturesque quality of a Norman Rockwell painting.

But it happened to be autumn at the moment. November. And the landscape had nothing of the picturesque about it.

The snow was the kind that bit and stung, lashing at anything in its path. Angry gray clouds swirled in restless low masses, bringing on darkness as early as four in the afternoon. The massive old trees were stripped bare; dark, lampless windows added to the aura of gloom; and no one was venturing out for a casual stroll. The wind was so vicious that it was all Lorna could do to maneuver her small car, and by the time she had parked it her hands were shaking from their long, tight grip on the steering wheel.

As she emerged from the Camaro, the wind tossed up her chestnut hair and sleet assaulted the tender skin of her face. Her toes were already freezing in the tan leather sandals. She had chosen her outfit thinking only of her meeting with Matthew; the weather had been the last thing on her mind. Now she realized her folly. The leather gloves weren’t warm enough; she wore no hat; her toes were growing numb; and, shivering violently in the lightweight tawny coat, she thought ruefully of the fur-lined parka at home in the hall closet.

She crossed the parking lot with her head bent and her arms crossed over her chest. Her stomach was churning up the five cups of coffee she’d had since morning, and three aspirins hadn’t touched her headache. Looming ahead was a gray stone building with a sign: Whitaker and Laker. The last time she’d seen it the sign had read Whitaker and Whitaker. Brothers. The thought did nothing to settle her nerves. She took a deep breath and stepped inside.

Silence. Not only was there suddenly no lashing wind, but she’d forgotten how forbiddingly quiet an attorney’s office could be. Unconsciously, her gloved hand clenched into a fist at her side as she glanced around. The decor had changed since Richard Whitaker, Sr. had retired. Conservative gold carpeting led up to a receptionist’s desk; wildlife prints hung in exact symmetry over deep leather chairs in the lobby. The redhead at the front desk, who looked up as Lorna entered the office, wore a gray pinstriped dress with a white collar.

Determinedly coming up with a smile, Lorna approached the paragon in gray, her hands ridiculously tight on her black crocheted shoulder bag. “I wonder if it would be possible for me to see Mr. Whitaker this afternoon?”

The redhead raised perfectly plucked eyebrows. “Do you have an appointment?”

Why did she bother to ask? Lorna thought dryly. We both know I don’t. “Please tell him that Mrs. Whitaker is here.”

Those perfect eyebrows vaulted upward. “I wasn’t aware… Actually, Mr. Whitaker is in court. I was expecting him back an hour ago, but there’s no way I can immediately contact him. I don’t know what to tell you…” The receptionist hesitated, clearly having no idea what to do with a woman who claimed to have the same last name as her boss.

“May I wait?” Lorna asked patiently.

“Why…yes, of course.”

Alone in the stark, tiled bathroom off the lobby, Lorna took a brush from her purse and restored order to her wind-tossed hair. Her cheeks were so red that she looked like Cherry Ames, and her lips were scarlet. Rapidly, she restored her appearance with lipstick and powder, adding a subtle hint of perfume. Her hands, to her annoyance, were trembling. The image in the mirror didn’t please her. The pale blue dress now seemed all wrong. The oval neckline showed her collarbones; the bodice clung too closely to her breasts; and the navy piping at hem and cuffs…it was just wrong, that was all. Pinstripes with a white collar would have been appropriate. Unfortunately, she’d always hated pinstripes…