Wintergreen

Chapter 4

“Johnny, you’ve got two choices,” Lorna called out, tapping her booted foot impatiently. “Either get the lead out of your feet or get grounded for the next ninety-seven years.”

The rapid pounding of boots was eventually followed by the entrance of her grinning son. “I don’t know why you bother to threaten me,” he said cheekily, pecking her affectionately on the chin as he headed outside ahead of her. “You know you aren’t really going to really do anything. Besides, we’re an hour earlier than you said.”

“Three-quarters of an hour now,” Lorna scolded as she hurried toward her Camaro.

“I told you school was going okay.”

“And I told you I wanted to see for myself,” she replied, turning the key in the ignition.

“You’ll be bored. It’s just for kids.” He paused and gave her a sidelong look. “Come to think of it, you’ll probably fit right in.”

“Thanks, urchin.”

The forty-minute drive to Johnny’s new private school took all of Lorna’s concentration; they stopped talking. A fresh layer of snow had fallen overnight, hiding an equally fresh layer of ice. Her car liked to skid, and the roads were giving it every opportunity.

Just less than an hour later the two walked down the silent corridors of the school. Not another soul was in sight at seven-thirty, but a beacon of light emanated from the farthest doorway. Johnny had been here only two weeks, yet each day Lorna had to fight with herself not to worry about how he was adjusting, not to show anxiety to her son, not to come on like an overprotective mother. When Mrs. Wright had called the night before, inviting Lorna to see how Johnny was functioning in the classroom, it was all Lorna could do to force herself to go to bed rather than pace the floor all night.

“Mrs. Whitaker?” The young blonde woman smiled, rising from a clutter of papers on the carpet when she saw Lorna and Johnny. “You two are early birds.” While Johnny was hanging up his coat, the teacher said simply, “I realize that you visited the classroom before you enrolled your son here. But I know Johnny a little better now, so I thought at this point I could give you a definite idea what we want to do together.”

Lorna nodded. “He’s doing all right?”

“He’s doing fine.”

The look of the classroom still surprised Lorna. Bright print curtains hung at the windows; carpeting warmed the floor; there was no blackboard. The school practiced Montessori methods, which meant that each student had an individually structured program based on his interests and abilities, regardless of his age. Under the teacher’s supervision, each student was allowed to work at his own pace; it had seemed ideal for an exceptional child like Johnny, and yet Lorna was concerned about discipline and socialization.

Certainly she had never seen a better-equipped classroom. A fourth-grader with a gift for languages was able to choose not only from among all the modern and even classical languages, but hieroglyphics as well. Geography included not only globes and standard texts, but also clay and water, materials with which the children constructed their own topographical maps. Two computers offered math challenges up to college-level statistics. All the materials and supplies were of high quality, plentiful and visually appealing.

The school was expensive far beyond what Lorna could have afforded had she not gone to Matthew, but it was the only school that suited Johnny’s unique abilities and personality. In public school, instead of taking pride in his quick mind, he had felt like an outcast when he mastered new skills and concepts more rapidly than his classmates.

“…lazy with his reading,” Mrs. Wright was saying. “Oh, I know he’s well ahead of grade level, but as I told you, that isn’t the point. He could be working up to his potential more, but we’ll just take care of that without his knowing.” Mrs. Wright winked conspiratorially. “I didn’t see him objecting when I put a seventh-grade science text in front of him yesterday. I think he was expecting an extended Dick-and-Jane basal reader.”

“But is he making friends? Does he seem to be adjusting? Academic achievement is important to me, Mrs. Wright, but…”

“But it’s not everything.” The teacher nodded her curly blonde head, and then hesitated. “Johnny seems to like the other children, but he is a bit sensitive, isn’t he? I don’t want to pry, but I understand his father is no longer alive-”

Lorna cast a haunted look toward her son, who was working away at the far end of the room. “Actually, we were divorced before Richard died.” She took a breath. “It doesn’t help that I’m estranged from my former husband’s family as well. Johnny knows all of that. Actually, he seemed to accept the situation very well, perhaps because I told him about it when he was younger. Now… I know there are questions in his mind that he just hasn’t asked yet. Maybe he’s afraid to ask. And I…”

“Mrs. Whitaker…” The teacher gently touched her hand. “Johnny is fine. Many children these days don’t have large families. For that matter, there are increasing numbers of children in single-parent households. It doesn’t mean he won’t grow up to be a well-adjusted man-”

Yes, Lorna reassured herself as she walked back out to the car a few minutes later. She started the engine feeling more lighthearted than she had in months. Johnny had not been an easy child to raise. In her own elementary school days, she’d excelled in the first two of the three R’s but arithmetic had always been her Waterloo, and in high school she’d never had a prayer of passing chemistry, while algebra might as well have been Arabic. No, she wasn’t a dunce, but she certainly hadn’t had Johnny’s insatiable intellectual curiosity; at times just trying to keep one step ahead of him was exhausting. At least the teachers at this school seemed to understand her son…

Matthew, she thought as she drove home, I owe you. Believing Johnny had the right to that tuition money because of his Whitaker bloodline was one thing, but Matthew didn’t believe that, and yet he had given without question or catch…

Once at home, she opened the door, set down her purse and was just hanging up her coat when the phone rang.

“Come over for coffee,” Freda croaked into the receiver. “Although actually, I’m having tea.”

“You’re home from work with a cold?” Lorna guessed.

“I never get colds. I’m playing hookey for the day,” Freda croaked. “And bring aspirin.”

Armed with aspirin, cold pills, cough medicine and a thermos of chamomile tea, Lorna walked the twenty steps to her neighbor’s apartment and let herself in. “Freda!”

“In here.”

“I can only stay a minute-I’ve got a ton of work to do today.” Lorna shed her coat and tossed it on the only empty chair in the living room. Toys, clothes, magazines and needlework took up the rest of the space. Freda always made Lorna feel like a model housekeeper. A smile playing at the corners of her lips, she wended her way through the chaos to the kitchen.

Red-nosed and sniffling, Freda was bundled up in a bathrobe with her feet propped up on a kitchen chair.

“Tell Brian to come over tonight after school,” Lorna ordered promptly, moving swiftly to line up the medicines on the table.

“I’ll be completely recovered by this afternoon,” Freda rasped.

“You look like something the cat rejected.” Familiar with Freda’s kitchen, Lorna reached for a second cup in the cupboard, filled it with instant coffee and water, and set it in the microwave.

“I always look like hell when you walk in the room. God knows why I even associate with a single female who looks the way you do. Masochism. Why don’t you dye your hair gray and gain forty pounds?”

Grinning, Lorna retrieved her cup of coffee, set it on the counter and ran a sinkful of soapy water. “Every time you talk, you breathe. If you give me that cold, Freda, I’m going to boil you in oil, so just sit back and drink your tea.”

“I didn’t ask you over to wash my dishes!”

Lorna paid no attention, adding the dirty dishes to the hot, sudsy water. Freda would have done the same for her if she were ill. The friendship was two years old and thriving. Lorna watched both boys after school until Freda came home from work; in return Freda babysat whenever Lorna wanted to go out for the evening. It was so easy, living next to each other; the boys even liked each other. Freda was a bitter divorcee, abandoned by her ex for a younger woman. Lorna had heard the story a hundred times; by nature compassionate, she would gladly listen to it another hundred times, or however often it took for Freda to get the residue out of her system.

Finishing the dishes, she turned to wipe her hands on a towel and found Freda staring bleary-eyed at her, a peculiar expression on her face. “What’s wrong?” She frowned absently. “You want me to throw a wash in the machine?”

“I want you to sit down for a minute,” Freda commanded hoarsely.

“I will. For a minute. But I’ve got a rush job I really have to finish today…” Lorna darted back to the bedrooms and returned a moment later with an armful of clothes. “What is it about boys? An allergy to clothes hampers that comes with the Y chromosome? Whenever I want to do laundry, the first place I look is under Johnny’s bed-”

“Sit.”

“I will.” Once the wash was started, Lorna blew back a strand of hair from her cheek, took her coffee cup to the far side of Freda’s table and settled down with a sigh. “You want your tea heated up?”

Freda sneezed and grabbed for the box of tissues. “What I want is to know if you’re still planning to go out with that man tomorrow night.”

Lorna took a sip of coffee, averting her eyes. “Obviously not, if you’re still sick.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Lorna Whitaker! The boys could care less if I’ve got a cold when they’re sleeping. That’s not why I asked. Honey, I don’t think you’ve really thought this out.”

“I’ve done nothing but think it out,” Lorna responded, with conscious control.

“And how did you explain Matthew to Johnny? The same last name and all that?”

“I haven’t explained.”

Freda gave her a pointed look and continued the attack. Gently, for Freda. “Honey, I’m just afraid you’re going to get hurt. What’s to be gained by your seeing anyone in that family again? You actually think he’s looking to be a father to Johnny after what happened with his brother? That you can both just forget what happened?”

Lorna stirred her coffee, making obsessive circles over and over. “I don’t know,” she admitted finally. She looked at Freda with an open, honest countenance. “I don’t seem to know…anything. Matthew has called at least twice a week for the last few weeks-and I’ve found myself laughing. No man has made me laugh for ages… Matthew always used to be able to make me laugh. We just keep…talking. And I tell myself that if I continue to see him, in time he’ll believe me about Johnny. In time, he might even see for himself the Whitaker characteristics I see in Johnny-”

“Lorna.”

Freda could ferret out fibs like a fox. Lorna rolled her eyes and sighed, but she wasn’t smiling. “All right.” She shrugged. “The laughter does matter-desperately-to me. But it isn’t all that happens when he calls. When I hear his voice. It’s as if we’ve both found each other, found someone to talk to, someone who seems to understand all those things you don’t know how to say. Part of that closeness was there before, I can see that now. But Richard aside, a relationship between Matthew and me wouldn’t have worked then. Matthew was a man and he was just being kind to a frightened girl in those days. But now…”

“And it never occurred to you that he might be out to take you for a ride, Lorna?” Freda demanded. “You think he’s forgotten his brother? He still believes you cheated on Richard…”

Lorna’s smile died. She got up to take her empty cup to the counter. “I don’t know,” she said again. “Or maybe I do, a little. Matthew’s not motivated by revenge, if that’s what you’re trying to say, Freda. He’s too sensitive, too fair. He knew at the time that there were two sides to the story and that Richard wasn’t perfect. He was good to his brother, but they weren’t…close. He isn’t…pursuing me because of that. Sex might be another story.”

Freda sneezed. “Pardon?”

“Sex,” Lorna repeated clearly.

Freda’s eyebrows shot up in alarm. “Has a stranger just walked into this kitchen?”

“I’m just trying very hard to be honest with myself-”

“Honey, for two years I’ve been urging you to give free rein to your libido. But not with this man. You can’t build a relationship on sexual attraction alone, kiddo. You’ll get broken up into little pieces if that man uses you.”

Lorna shook her head and headed for the door, her eyes suddenly distant. “Only one man ever used me, Freda, and no one else is ever going to do it again. For now, not to worry. Pour yourself another cup of tea and crawl into bed.”

Lorna, wearing a pale coral slip, was riffling through her closet with a look of dissatisfaction. She worked at home and didn’t have to dress for success; consequently, her wardrobe was decidedly limited. So was her decision-making ability this evening. Everything was wrong. The raspberry shirtwaist was too bright. The coral print too busy. The mauve too dull. All the shirtwaists were boring. The suit she’d thought she loved she now hated… Her fingers touched the softness of an angora skirt and hesitated.

A few moments later, she’d exchanged the coral slip for a black one, pulled on a scoop-neck black cashmere sweater, and was stepping into the angora skirt, which had a bold black, gray and purple patchwork pattern. She’d made the skirt a year ago. The project had been fun. The dramatic colors appealed to her, and the angora added substance to her slim hips. So why haven’t you put it on before? she asked the mirror absently.

The answer came easily. Because she didn’t wear low-cut sweaters on dates, or skirts that kissed and told on her figure. You don’t advertise what you aren’t selling. The mirror was just full of answers she just wasn’t all that interested in hearing, so she turned away from it. She was looking in the closet for her black leather sandals when Johnny rapped on the door

“I’m going over to Brian’s now, Mom.”

“Fine, honey. Have a good time.” She emerged from the closet three inches taller. “Be good?”

Her son gave her a lazy grin. “What’s it worth?”

“To behave? Your hide.” She gave him a swift kiss and smile before heading back toward the dressing table, first applying a moisturizer and then a subtle mauve eyeshadow. Mascara and blusher, lipstick… She glanced up again and saw Johnny still standing in the doorway. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

“Nothing.” He dug his hands in his coat pockets. “You gonna be late tonight?”

“I don’t know,” Lorna answered truthfully. Her silky hair crackled under the vigorous brushing, gleaming like mahogany in the soft bedroom light; she drew it back with a small jet comb at her crown, then let the gleaming waves fall to her shoulders. The effect pleased her and she reached for a perfume bottle.

“That Matthew guy’s been calling a lot. And you didn’t go out with Hal last weekend, even though he called, too.” Johnny hesitated, shifting his feet restlessly. Lorna knew he had more to say, but he wasn’t saying it. “Watch yourself,” he said finally, and promptly disappeared. A moment later Lorna heard the slam of the front door.

Watch yourself? She smiled ruefully. Who was taking care of whom in this household? She stood up, checking her image one last time in the mirror. The stark black sweater clung lovingly to her high breasts, showing off the pillow-soft flesh of her throat and her collarbones. The skirt stopped just below the knee, leaving a long expanse of shapely legs in dark, sheer stockings. Her eyes were a smoky gray, and her hair, freshly washed, radiated life, as well as the sheen of glossy chestnut. She felt feminine to her toes; the tingling of mixed anticipation and apprehension only increased when she saw the attractive reflection peering back at her. Watch yourself, Lorna, she told the mirror wryly.

Laughing, Lorna carefully folded herself like an accordion into the narrow Morgan. “I feel as if I’m trying to fit my legs into a bumper car at a carnival!” Matthew’s automobile was a classic, dark green with a long, low front. When Lorna was seated, she could no longer see her toes, and she felt as if she were sitting an inch off the ground, although the rich leather seats were comfortable and the gadgets on the dashboard a study in luxury.

Matthew slammed the door on his side, effectively taking up all the rest of the available space and then some, and scowled at her. “If you insult my car, I guarantee it won’t start.”

Alarmed, Lorna promptly patted the dash. “Good baby, good baby.” If the heat didn’t come on soon, she was going to turn into an icicle. So much for open-weave skirts and bare throats.

Matthew grinned, giving her a sidelong glance as he turned the key in the ignition. When he’d called for her, he’d taken in every inch of her from the top of her head to her toes; she couldn’t imagine why she flushed now. Because he was suddenly so close, she supposed. Because they both appeared to be rather taken aback at how startlingly fast, how violently fast, they seemed to be aware of each other in a completely new way. Because his dark coat and dark eyes and dark hair sent a starkly sexual message directly to her bloodstream. Because his shoulder was brushing hers, and because his hand on the gearshift was only inches from her thigh. Because…

“I hope you don’t mind a little change in plans, Misha.” The engine was purring smoothly now, and the car was cozy as toast.

She glanced at him. He had stopped at a stoplight, and reaching behind him brought forward two white bags, which he handed to her. She opened both, revealing two huge corned beef sandwiches, potato chips, pickles and chocolate éclairs. Except for the pickles, she had no objections, but it was not exactly the kind of dinner she had dressed for.

“And we’ve only got ten minutes to eat.” Seeing the expression she was trying so hard to hide, he chuckled. “It isn’t exactly what I had planned, either. But unless you’ve changed your taste in music, Misha, I think you’ll be pleased. I heard this afternoon that Diana Krall is going to be at the Bluebird for tonight only. So…”

“You’re not serious.”

“If you would rather just go to a nice restaurant, this stuff will keep.”

She forced one of the sandwiches rapidly in his hand, not wasting any more time talking while she munched on her own. He chuckled again at her enthusiasm. She had no idea how he remembered her love of jazz; Richard hadn’t liked it, and she had rarely played her cherished recordings while he was at home. She didn’t care for avant-garde jazz, but she loved the traditional music, beginning with Bessie Smith in the twenties. She especially loved the type of song where the pianist picked up a love story and retold it in his or her own way.

When Matthew stopped the car less than ten minutes later, Lorna opened her door before he could come around to do it for her. Impatiently, she lifted one foot and then the other, waiting while he locked the car on his side and approached hers. A light covering of snow blanketed the sidewalks, and the silvery flakes were still falling. She was shivering.

“Don’t you ever wear boots?” he chided.

“Oh, stop it, Matthew. What time does Krall start?”

“In seven minutes. We’ve still got time for a brisk walk around the block, if you-” He laughed at her horrified expression and draped a warm arm over her shoulder as they started walking. The swift kiss on her forehead startled her. “I was beginning to think you’d lost it, Misha. That little-kid ability to get all excited and just…be. Just laugh because of nothing at all.”

She wasn’t sure what he meant, and for an instant even resented the remark. Her life was a serious matter, not so very easy since the death of her father and the necessity of caring for Johnny by herself; surely Matthew didn’t want or expect her to behave like a child? But that quick prick of resentment faded as she was warmed in the crook of his shoulder, matching his fast-paced walk. He was right in his way. She hadn’t had such a simple feeling of sheer fun and anticipation in a long time.

A few minutes later, they walked down the steps to the basement nightclub that was the Bluebird. Stepping into darkness, Matthew took their coats while Lorna waited for her eyes to adjust. It would be euphemistic to call the place a dive. Old tables were crowded together over a faded linoleum floor; smoke was already filling the air; and the crowd was eclectic. Faded jeans mingled with gold lamé and a few black leather jackets; the single candle on each table illuminated trays of drinks waiting to be served. All chitchat stopped abruptly when the jazz trip started playing. No more drinks were served. The chatter of latecomers stopped at the doorway.

Lorna simply sat back, listened and inhaled. The shabby room faded into something else; the group of mismatched individuals blended into appreciative aficionados under the spell of her music.

She wasn’t aware how intently Matthew was watching her until the waitress served them drinks between the second and third sets. “I can tell you’re having a rotten time,” he murmured.

“Matthew…” She just looked at him, not knowing where to find the words to tell him how much the evening meant to her. She’d been afraid of a candlelit dinner, afraid they would suddenly be groping for conversation, afraid they would seem like strangers, afraid that special rapport she’d felt with him would disappear and that unhappy memories would poison the atmosphere, prevent any real communication between them. Now all that apprehension seemed unreal. How could she possibly feel uncomfortable when she knew Matthew shared her love of music, when the evening had started out with hastily eaten sandwiches and there had been laughter from the start?

“You’re so beautiful, Misha,” he whispered. “When you’re happy, you glow like a candle in a dark world. So easy to make happy, so easy to make sad. You touch your world, Misha-you make an impression on everyone who knows you. Did you know that?”

The place was dark and smoky, and the single candle on their table cast shadows on the planes of his face, adding a flicker of flame to his dark eyes when he looked at her. The music started again, yet this time Lorna felt drawn by a more potent magic than the subtle piano chords. Matthew’s thigh rested against hers while they listened. His arm went around the back of the booth, his fingers absently resting on her shoulders, occasionally fondling her hair. His touch talked to her, whispering of the cocoon he wanted to spin around the two of them. When the trio started a low, haunting love song, there wasn’t a sound in the place, and Lorna could feel the ache of old longings fill her as if she were a well that had been empty and hollow and cold and was now brimming with feelings so strong…

They left after midnight. The Ann Arbor streets were emptied of cars and totally silent. The glistening dark pavement and pure velvet covering of snow on the trees and grass made Lorna forget the frigid air that chilled her bones. She felt exhausted, exhilarated, high on music and recklessly exuberant as she hadn’t been in months.

Matthew was laughing at something she said as he settled his rangy frame next to her in the Morgan. He dropped a swift, soft kiss on her mouth, so naturally that she was still smiling when he drew away to start the car. “Do you have to be home to accommodate a babysitter, or do you have time for a drink first?” he asked easily.

“Johnny’s with Freda for the night, so I don’t have to…” Her lighthearted smile faltered just a little, as reality came back with a little bump. Explaining that Johnny was off her hands for the night might sound like an open invitation, and she didn’t need it spelled out to know Matthew was asking her to his place.

“Good, Misha. I had a feeling you weren’t tired. I always have insomnia after a night of music,” he drawled, looking straight ahead as he drove.

She looked at him. The sight of his strong profile under a street lamp sent a mental shiver down her spine. She swallowed. “I do, too, Matthew, but actually tomorrow I have to…”

“Work? So do I. But I want to talk to you, Misha. You don’t really want to go home yet, do you?”

He had stopped for a red light, and turned to look at her. Stop melting, Lorna told herself sternly. You can’t go into this just because you’re in an insane mood and you’re high on life for these few hours. But the look in Matthew’s dark eyes seemed to touch her physically, to caress the silken strands of her hair, her soft lower lip, to rest on the vulnerable skin of her throat.

“Misha? I just want to talk,” he assured her softly.

She settled back, staring straight ahead. “For one drink then,” she agreed cautiously, but she thought, Talk? Matthew, you never used to be a liar.