Jennifer Greene - Wintergreen

“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.

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, brushed her hair, then washed her hands again. The repetition of the motion reminded her of Lady Macbeth and she smiled grimly to herself. She did not need all the perfumes of Arabia-or even a fresh dousing of Lily of the Valley-to sweeten her little hands. She was innocent of any wrongdoing, she didn’t care whatever Mr. Whitaker thought. Johnny had gotten along all this time without a grandfather; he didn’t need one now.

She didn’t feel like crying.

Everything was fine. She understood all the subtleties of her conversation with Richard Whitaker, Sr., Master Attorney, Ret. Matthew would never guess that his father harbored any negative feelings for Lorna, because those feelings would never show. In front of Matthew. Mr. Whitaker valued his son too much. And maybe at some level he realized that his elder son had a great deal more strength and character than his younger son had possessed, that Matthew would never allow his wife to stray down the decadent path to other men’s beds.

Stop it, she told her reflection in the mirror furiously. What do you care anymore? Why can’t you just put it behind you?

She returned the makeup items to her purse. Just be very sure you do nothing to hurt my son. She straightened her skirt, smoothed down the front of her blouse, checked her stockings for runs, pasted a brilliant smile on her face and unlocked the bathroom door.

She descended the steep stairs to the basement slowly. Below she could hear the chortle of Johnny’s laughter and the steady hum of the electric train. Pausing at the bottom of the stairs, she leaned back against the white-painted wall and folded her arms. Her head was aching and her heart was still beating in a terrible, painful rhythm that she refused to define, yet she could not help relaxing a little at the sight that greeted her.

Matthew was on his hands and knees, as was Johnny; their rear ends faced her. The train was more than a few decades old; the engine was a good foot long and made all kinds of authentic old-time noises. The tracks led from the huge main storage room of the basement through the laundry rooms and pantries, and pack to the game room where she was standing now. It had to have taken Matthew days to set it up. Tunnels and crisscrossed tracks and flashing lights, makeshift hills and valleys and switchyards… She shook her head, debating who was the happier child of the two.

Matthew moved and caught sight of her. She decided abruptly that she was mistaken to label him a child. His dark eyes seared hers, assessing so perceptively that she felt stripped and laid bare; she saw a flash of anger in those depths, and knew she had to do a better job of covering up her emotions. She would not be responsible for a rift between father and son, nor could she blame Mr. Whitaker for her own desperately unhappy mood.