Jennifer Greene - Wintergreen

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 rosé 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 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.