Jennifer Greene: Wintergreen

So just walk out if you’re so damned scared, she told her reflection. Vulnerable gray eyes suddenly telegraphed an S.O.S. in the mirror as Lorna admitted to herself that she hadn’t really planned very well what she was going to say to Matthew. To ensure Johnny’s future she’d make her pitch from a street corner if necessary. Her nervousness wasn’t the result of stage fright. It was the thought of seeing Matthew again that made her so tense.

He was a tough man, the kind who played to win and never backed down on a principle. Richard had modeled himself after his older brother; knowing that had intimidated Lorna when she first met Matthew. But until the end of the marriage, Matthew had always-oddly enough-had a soft spot for her… She had to hold that thought.

With a determined step, she opened the door to the bathroom and quietly walked into the lobby, not glancing at the receptionist. She sat down in one of the leather chairs, crossed her legs, stared out the window and ordered herself to relax.

“Mrs. Whitaker?”

The redhead was suddenly standing in front of her.

“I think you’d be more comfortable in Mr. Whitaker’s office,” she said firmly. “I’ll get you some coffee.”

“Really, I’m fine,” Lorna told her, but the redhead appeared to be accustomed to herding people. She’d evidently decided that a relative of the boss should be treated as such, even if she had never heard of the existence of a female Whitaker. Lorna found it impossible to explain that she wasn’t positive Matthew would even talk to her, much less allow her near his inner sanctum.

Which was where she found herself standing, playing with the handle of her purse, several seconds later. Matthew’s desk was a smooth slab of teak, spotless and gleaming. Lawyerly tomes filled the floor-to-ceiling shelves behind it, thick leather volumes that added to the elegance of the silent office. She took in the dark blue carpeting and teak paneling-very plush, very expensive. A pair of cream-colored leather chairs faced the desk; a long antique credenza stood behind them. The room was tasteful and quiet, but just being there increased the almost desperate feeling of dread in Lorna’s heart.

For generations, the Whitaker men had dedicated themselves to the law, and Matthew was the best of that breed. Nine years ago, Richard had been a year out of law school; Matthew, five years older, had already been at the top of his profession. He hadn’t wasted any time. He could have used the family influence to further his career, but he hadn’t bothered. Matthew was not only a successful lawyer, but a pillar of righteousness; he was a one-man band on the black-and-white of justice. Richard had both idolized and resented him…

“Here we go.”

Lorna pivoted as the redhead entered behind her, carrying a small tray. The sugar bowl and creamer were Waterford crystal, and the teaspoon was sterling silver. Whitaker traditions. The throbbing in Lorna’s temples increased. At the moment, her bank balance was so low that she couldn’t afford to pay a nickel to see the Statue of Liberty tap-dance.

“Sit down, please, Mrs. Whitaker. Really, it should only be another few minutes until Mr. Whitaker gets back. My name is Irene. Call me if you need anything…” The receptionist arched her eyebrows curiously, clearly hoping to learn Lorna’s first name. Presumably, it would look better to the boss if she was on first-name terms with his relatives.

Lorna sighed mentally. “Lorna,” she supplied simply.

The woman was satisfied, her smile radiant. “Well, then, Lorna, if you should need anything at all…”

She didn’t. Irene propped the door open and left Lorna in peace for another fifteen minutes. That peace was shattered, however, by the low, husky baritone she hadn’t heard in so very long. There was suddenly the strangest rushing in her ears, blocking out all other sounds.

Nine years, ago, Matthew had been the one who’d severed all contact between Lorna and the Whitakers. She wasn’t likely to forget his voice.

He was informing the redhead that his mother had been dead for twenty years, that he believed she knew he was unmarried, that there were no living female Whitakers, and that he was too damned tired to entertain imaginative women.

And then, suddenly, he was there; the redhead, flustered and flushed, just behind him. Lorna barely had time to stand up. He stopped midstride; Lorna knew he’d been prepared to oust the intruder from his office. Instead, he stood stone-still when he saw her.

Lorna had once known him well, yet still she faltered. He was taller and leaner than Richard, his body made up of more sinew than flesh; Matthew had never stood still long enough for any extra weight to settle on him. His gray suit jacket hung open over wide shoulders, and his steel chest was encased in an impeccable white shirt. Thick brown hair brushed his shirt collar and framed a square face with an iron chin, a high forehead and dark brown, almost black eyes-cruel eyes, she thought fleetingly, though never before had they seemed cruel to her.

To others, yes. It was said that he could make a truthful witness stumble on the stand, that he could make the most articulate of judges stammer. The deeply etched lines on his brow only accented the strength of his face. She knew those lines. She saw them in Johnny. It went beyond the perseverance that was a Whitaker family trait. Maybe Matthew couldn’t make a mountain cave in with that look of his, but he could probably come close. No give, she read, and suddenly felt exhausted.

“You were right, Irene. I apologize,” Matthew said suddenly. He turned to the redhead. “I won’t need you anymore this evening.”

“You’re in trouble?”

“I…not trouble exactly, Matthew.” As an opening speech, it lacked something, because that seemed to be the end of it. So much anxiety, so much adrenaline pumping, so many raw nerves… She had been prepared for an angry tirade and the gentleness of his questions had taken her by surprise.

“Sit down, Misha. Just tell me about it,” he suggested quietly.

She leaned back in the chair and glanced up at him. No one but Matthew had ever called her Misha. She had been christened Mishalorna; her great-grandfather had been Russian, and her father had taught the language. But the name had lasted no longer than her infancy. Lorna was so much easier. Richard, especially, had always objected to the exotic hint of the foreign name.

Matthew hadn’t, and a very long time ago his special diminutive had always sounded teasing and affectionate. Now the sound of it sent a swift, strange rush of warmth through her. She grappled with the cool, distant speech she had prepared in her head. “I’m sure you feel I haven’t any right to be here, and I promise I won’t take up much of your time. If you’ll just hear me out-”

“You haven’t changed.”

He was studying her, his eyes skimming over her crossed legs and supple, slim body, apparently assessing the difference nine years had made. His jaw seemed to tighten as he took in soft red lips and expressive gray eyes, the way she brushed her hair back from her forehead, the pale blue knit dress gently molded to her figure.

Disconcerted by his intimate survey, Lorna glanced down and tried to compose her thoughts again. It wasn’t as if he could honestly be happy to see her.

“Misha? Are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

“Yes. Of course.” The thing to do was to get it over with. Lorna focused deliberately on the sheen of the teak desk rather than on those unfathomable eyes of his. There was no way she was going to let this drag on any longer than it had to. “The last time I saw you, Matthew, I was in the hospital. If you remember, you offered me a check for ten thousand dollars from…Richard.”