Jennifer Greene - Wintergreen

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 déjà 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 two bedrooms, I had to have a place to work.”

“I saw the foreign dictionaries.”

It took her a moment to figure out why he was rummaging in her refrigerator, until he removed fresh vegetables and lined them up on the counter. Ah, yes, salad. “Matthew, you don’t have to do that-”

He paid no attention. “So you’re working as a translator?”

She nodded, trying not to smile. He had bent down in front of a cupboard and was reaching across the peanut butter to get to the bowls, almost tipping over the flour on the way.

“I had only one skill to sell in the job market when Johnny was a baby,” she explained. “I was fluent in French and Russian because my parents spoke those languages. And I had studied German in school… Well, you know that, Matthew, but I still didn’t have a degree. I started tutoring, and then an electronics firm in Detroit decided to try reaching the European market and I translated some brochures for them. My clientele built up, slowly but surely. Dad helped for a long time. I do a good deal of work for four travel companies, but computer manufacturers are really becoming my bread and butter-there seems to be no end to the software that’s being peddled overseas…”

Why are you chattering on? she thought. He doesn’t want to hear all that. She fell silent, first putting the potatoes in the oven and then rapidly cleaning the counter before setting the table. Matthew was busy shredding lettuce, the sleeves of his starched white shirt now rolled up. “Didn’t your father have life insurance, Misha?”

She nodded. “But I used it to pay his medical bills. I’ve managed,” she said, with a small trace of defiance. “I’ve done fine, Matthew. I make a decent living, and the work allows me to be home with Johnny. It’s just…it simply hasn’t been possible for me to save a great deal of money, and the tuition for this special school for Johnny-”

“I already said you could have the money, Misha. You don’t need to justify its use to me.” His voice was quiet but held a trace of steel in it. He didn’t want to hear or talk about Johnny. He leaned back against the counter, drinking his wine while Lorna finished setting the table. “Between caring for your father and a small child and working, you couldn’t have had much time for a social life.”

She felt a prickle at the back of her neck and glanced up. He was staring at her with brooding dark eyes, his look so possessive that it took her aback. “I can guarantee you’ve had a more active social life than I have over the years,” Lorna said lightly, but there was steel in her voice, too. If he was trying to imply that she had little chance to be promiscuous…

“No, Misha…”

Gently, his palm brushed her cheek, but whatever he had been about to say was interrupted by four feet two inches of energetic towhead slamming through the back door. “Hi, Mom!” Johnny offered her a token peck on the cheek, in between kicking off his boots, chewing on a thumbnail, hanging his coat on a hook and never taking his eyes off the stranger for a second. “What’s for dinner?”

“Meat loaf, sweets. Were you good for Freda?”

Johnny made a face. “A perfect angel. Par for the course.”

Lorna smiled, but all she could think was: Be an angel, Johnny. Just this once. She turned to Matthew to make the introductions.

He was finishing the last of his wine in one long gulp, and when he set down his glass his dark gaze captured hers. His shoulders were stiff and his jaw firm. And his eyes were like black ice, their depths unfathomable but the chill unmistakable. Until that moment, Lorna had almost-foolishly, she rebuked herself-managed to believe that Matthew had put the past behind them.