Jennifer Greene - Wintergreen

She turned back to Johnny. Her son, unfortunately, didn’t miss a trick. He stepped forward as he had been taught, offering a distinctly grubby hand as he knew he was required to do, but his normally soft gray eyes were wary, his shoulders stiff, and his little jaw as firm as Matthew’s. Whitaker to the core, Lorna thought despairingly.

It was going to be one hell of a dinner.

Lorna reached over to tuck Johnny in, automatically straightening her son’s cowlick as she bent to kiss him good night. “Don’t stay up late,” he ordered her sleepily.

Lorna smiled, flicking out the light next to him. “Sleep well, sweets. I love you.”

“Mom.”

She turned at the door.

“Where’d he come from? You never had him around before.”

“Johnny,” she said patiently, “I explained. He was someone I knew a long time ago-that was the reason I invited him for dinner.”

“Yeah, I know what you said.” Johnny hesitated, mashing back the pillow behind his head. “And he’s okay. He’s got a neat car, and all those stories about criminals and stuff. I mean, I like him fine, but I don’t know about you. He’s a man’s man, you know?”

She swallowed a grin. “No, I’m not sure that I do.”

“You just tell him to go home. You’re tired.”

And that was the truth, she thought as she detoured into the bathroom before facing Matthew again. She brushed her hair into a thick glossy curtain that just touched her shoulders, then sat down on the edge of the porcelain tub and simply breathed. For the first time in hours.

So many conflicting emotions were churning inside her that she felt as though her heart had been put through a blender. It wasn’t that the dinner had been so traumatic; it hadn’t been. Johnny had gregariously taken over the conversation, and once he’d discovered that Matthew was a criminal lawyer, he’d grilled the attorney with all his nine-year-old guile. No amount of softspoken admonishments or maternal kicks under the table had stopped his offensive. Johnny, the spoiled brat, considered it his right to vet any man Lorna saw. His hostility toward and mistrust of Matthew had been instant. The thaw had been marginal.

And Matthew, contrary to what she had expected, had fielded Johnny’s every question and totally ignored her. He took the child’s interrogation seriously and treated him with respect. A stranger might have even thought Matthew relaxed. But Lorna was vibrantly aware of the way the muscle in his jaw continually tightened, of the way he deliberately avoided looking at her, of the absolutely controlled quality of his voice. And when Johnny neatly sidestepped helping with the dishes and ignored Lorna’s request to pick up his toys, Matthew’s black eyes had fired, though he hadn’t said a word.

It was hardly an instant love affair between uncle and nephew. Not that Lorna had expected it to be, but she hadn’t anticipated how it would wrench her heart to see the two of them together. Both hoarded their feelings as if they were gold; both had the same square jaw; both were possessive and protective. Johnny’s right shoulder shifted exactly the way Matthew’s did when he was uncomfortable. They had beautiful, even white teeth. Both had an abundance of arrogant self-confidence, a quality Lorna alternately resented and envied.

Tears threatened suddenly. Matthew was family. He and Richard, Sr., were the only family Johnny had besides her. She stood up, rapidly applying a bit of blusher to her cheeks. She hadn’t been this emotionally exhausted in a long time, and she had no desire to face Matthew again. She knew he hadn’t seen beyond Johnny’s blond hair and freckles. The only conclusion she could possibly draw was that Johnny reminded him of the kind of woman he thought she was or had been. The kind of woman who would be unfaithful less than a year into her marriage, the kind for whom a vow of love meant so little…

Lorna slipped off her high-heeled shoes, irrationally deciding that she could face anything as long as her toes weren’t pinched, and padded back out into the living room.

Matthew was standing before the white marble fireplace, looking at a photograph of Lorna and Johnny at a picnic a few years before. His glass of brandy was next to him on the mantel; another glass was waiting for her on the coffee table. He turned to look at her as she entered the room; the reserved smile he’d managed for Johnny was gone, replaced by an expression of authority and determination. As she gazed at his stern features and dark, impenetrable eyes, Lorna felt distinctly uneasy.

She bent to pick up her glass and then sat down in a corduroy armchair, curling one leg beneath her.

“Shall we get the details out of the way, Misha? Exactly when do you need the money?” he asked flatly.

She hesitated. “I don’t need the whole ten thousand dollars, Matthew,” she said quietly. “Only enough to pay Johnny’s tuition for this year. Johnny needs this school, but my furnace went out last week, which is why I started to panic-”

“The question was only when, Misha, not how much.”

She took a sip of brandy and let it flow down her throat before answering. He was standing with his feet apart and one elbow resting on the mantel; the stance was aggressive, all authoritative male, and she thought, No, Matthew, I’ll be damned if I’m going to let myself get defensive. Not for anyone, not anymore. Her tone was low and very, very controlled. “The school he’s in has all but asked me to find another place for him. Johnny’s bright, Matthew. Too bright. When he gets ahead of the others, he’s bored…but any kid who calls him ‘brain’ gets a punch in the nose. He’s already played hookey several times. Of course, he only goes to the library, but-”

“Misha, I don’t have to hear all about the boy’s problems. The only thing I really need to know is when you want the money.”

Her smoky eyes darkened expressively as she set down her glass. She didn’t care if Matthew could read the signs of impending anger: her flicked-hair back; her stiffened chin; her eyes the ominous gray of a storm cloud. “Next week,” she clipped out.

Matthew finished his drink and leaned back against the marble fireplace, loosely folding his arms. “Honey. Stop bristling.”

“Look-”

“For you, Misha, I’d do my best to walk on water. When I saw you again and realized you were in trouble…” He shook his head, just a little, his eyes holding hers in a gaze so intense she could not look away. She wanted to. Something kept happening whenever he looked at her, whenever he was close enough to touch her-something completely different from the way she had once felt about Matthew. “You’re unhappy because I don’t want to listen to you talk about your son,” he said quietly. “At least let me explain, Misha. I don’t feel I have the right-not to even offer you a few words of advice, not even simply to listen. His own father surely has first rights. Stone’s still living in the city. Even though things apparently didn’t work out between you, he has the financial and moral responsibility to take care of Johnny’s needs. Why don’t you go, to him first, Misha?”

She looked away then, every nerve ending coiling up tight. “ Never would I go to that man. First of all, because he’s a bastard. And second, because Johnny isn’t. He’s a Whitaker, Matthew…”

“And I never thought we had a problem with honesty,” Matthew responded coldly. “Misha, he’s your son. That’s all that matters.”

“Not to me!” She sprang from the chair and stalked to the closet to get his coat. Two huge tears that she had no intention of shedding stung her eyes. With Matthew’s coat in her arms, Lorna turned back to him; her silvery eyes were brilliant in her pale face. “Not to me, Matthew,” she repeated more calmly. “You’re just like Richard. Just like your father. Do you think I would sleep with two men at the same time? Do you think I would put a ring on my finger and then, less than year later-”