In From the Cold Page 6

  “Wow. Look at the great hot chocolate. Is it yummy?” She spoke to the girls and avoided my gaze.

  Both heads nodded in unison.

  “There’s one for you too.” I pushed a mug toward her. “I wasn’t sure if you liked marshmallows.”

  “Great. What a treat.” She threw a couple of marshmallows in her cup and elaborately made her own mustache.

  Yvette giggled.

  Suzie and I stared at her in surprise. We’d never heard her giggle, but Claire kept her reaction carefully nonchalant. She leaned into Yvette’s face, smiling. “What? You like my mustache? Is it big enough, dumpling?” She rubbed noses with Yvette, who giggled again and shook her head. It was a lovely sound, like sleigh bells.

  Claire raised her eyebrows. “No? Then I’d better try harder.” She took another big swig of hot chocolate, and this time dripped melted marshmallow from the tip of her nose. She looked adorably silly and the girls burst into laughter.

  “Better?” She waggled her eyebrows. The girls were belly laughing now.

  “Come on, Daddy.” Suzie pulled my sleeve, bouncing on her stool. “Do bigger.”

  I arched an eyebrow and scanned the trio. “You think?”

  Two hopeful little faces nodded. I swiveled to face Claire. “How ’bout you, Miss Claire? Think I can do better?”

  She raised one eyebrow and crossed her arms. “Give it your best shot, big guy.”

  I held up my mug, paused dramatically, and practically dipped my face in the mug. I had marshmallow hanging on my cheeks, hot chocolate dripping from my chin.

  “Ewwwwwww,” both girls howled. Claire chuckled too, her fingers over her mouth.

  I threatened to rub my face against them, and they squealed again.

  “You win. You win.” Still giggling, the girls gulped the rest of their chocolate, then started to scoot off their stools.

  “Waaait a minute.” Claire wet a paper towel and started wiping hands and faces. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “We want to watch TV,” Suzie said.

  “After you change into dry clothes.”

  I walked around the kitchen bar. “I was thinking about ordering pizza for dinner. Is that okay, Miss Claire?”

  The girls jumped up and down, chanting, “Cheese. Cheese. Cheese. Cheese.”

  “Sure.” Claire held up her hands. “Why don’t you call while I change the knuckleheads?”

  “What do you like?”

  “Everything. Anything.” She grinned. “Cheese apparently.”

  The girls scampered down the hall, and Claire turned to follow them.

  “Wait.” I wet another paper towel and tilted her face toward me. I wiped the marshmallow off her nose, gently swiped the mustache from her upper lip, while my thumb rested on her lower lip. She stood very still, holding her breath, then I realized I was holding mine too.

  I stepped away. “There.” My hands were shaking.

  “Hold on.” She moved closer, her lips curling upward, her eyes lit with amusement. She laid her left hand on my chest, stilling me, then took my paper towel with her right. I could feel my heart thud under her hand.

  “Your turn.” She reached up and wiped the chocolate and melted marshmallow off my cheeks, my upper lip, my chin. She ran the towel delicately across my lower lip. Every muscle in my body seized, the urge to clasp her to me almost unbearable. I felt lightheaded, my blood like sand, heavy in my veins, sliding south. She fixed her eyes on my lips, refusing to meet my eyes. She tapped her index finger on my lower lip.

  “There. You’re all set.” Her hand still lay on my chest, and she slowly raised her gaze to mine.

  I covered her hand, pressing it against me. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” She looked at our hands, flushed, then stepped back. She hurried after the girls.

  She had missed a big spot, though—she couldn’t wipe the grin off my face.

  We ate pizza, and the girls soon drooped into their plates. We each carried one back to their room, then we brushed their teeth and rolled them into bed. Claire left the room, while I snuggled against Suzie’s pillow and read Goodnight Moon to them, and before the end of the book, both girls had fallen fast asleep.

  I found Claire in the kitchen, hanging up a towel from drying dishes, the dishwasher rumbling quietly behind her.

  “Well?”

  “Down before I got to ‘And goodnight mouse’.”

  She smiled. “That’s great. I’m sure they loved that.” She crossed her arms and rubbed them like she was cold. “Well, I guess I’ll—”

  “Claire.” I reached toward her, then dropped my hand. “Don’t. Don’t go.”

  She looked down at the floor, and I ran my hand through my hair, frustrated.

  “Look, you were right. We were tired the other night and a little drunk, and we started way too fast. I’d like to…back up a bit, get to know you. If that’s too much to ask, I understand, but I’d like to try. Could we just sit and maybe talk?”

  I was nervous, so afraid she’d turn tail and run. And I wanted her to stay, more than I was willing to admit to myself.

  She thought a moment, her arms still folded across herself like body armor.

  “Just talk?”

  I held two fingers in the air. “Scout’s honor.”

  “And no wine?” She grinned.

  “No wine. How ’bout some coffee or tea?”

  She smiled, and hope sprang in my chest. “Okay. Tea would be great.”

  I prepared the tea while she moved into the great room. She threw another log on the fire, then stretched out on the couch in her corner. I walked over and handed her a mug of tea, then settled into the opposite end of the couch. I took a sip of my coffee.

  “So.”

  “So.” She exhaled.

  “The fire looks good. Feels good.” The room looked cozy and safe. Perfect.

  “Uh hunh. It’s nice to sit too.”

  “They keep you hopping, don’t they?”

  “More like racing.” She chuckled. I loved the timbre of her voice, deep and sultry, with a touch of Southern accent. “It’s all good though. I’m glad to see Yvette coming out of her shell.” She blew on her tea. “You said you knew her parents. What’s her home like?”

  I glanced over at the doorway, making sure Sharon wasn’t hovering just out of sight.

  “Messy divorce. Busy screwed-up parents. Miles has always been careless. When we were kids, he’d bring home strays, lose interest in a week, and somehow, all his friends ended up with new pets.”

  “Did you?”

  “Rex, Tex and Lex—still got ’em too.”

  “Dogs?”

  “Cats.”

  “Really? You struck me as more of a dog kind of guy.”

  “Nah. Dogs always want to please. Cats—they’re more contrary, sort of like furry three-year-olds.”

  She grinned over her tea. She had a beautiful smile.

  “I can see that.” She swished her tea in slow circles in her mug. “So who does Yvette live with most?”

  “I think Miles. Has she said?”

  She shook her head. “No, and that’s strange. Suzie talks about you all the time, and her mom.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t worry.” She laughed. “She thinks you walk on water. And her mother’s the most beautiful lady in the world.” She paused. “How long have you been divorced?”

  “Two years.”

  It felt like a lifetime ago—and like yesterday.

  “Was it messy or amicable?”

  “Both. Suzie was just a baby. It was messy at first, but now we’re…cordial.”

  Claire nodded and took another sip of tea. “What’s she like?”

  “You sure you want to know?” I expelled a gust of air. I wasn’t sure I could
talk about Wanda. How much to tell? How much to leave out?

  I would always remember my first sight of her—at a party, laughing, her head back in full guffaw, her long blonde hair streaming down her back, surrounded by all my fraternity buddies. Her eyes caught mine when she stopped laughing, and like one of those romantic moments in a movie, suddenly, we were the only two people in the room.

  I walked right up and claimed her, grabbed her hand and pulled her away from the others out onto the balcony and into my arms. It had been match to gasoline. I knew within the month that I would marry her, and if that made me a sucker, so be it.

  At the time, Wanda seemed to want that too.

  We dated for two years, then married soon after graduation, and moved to Chevy Chase. We’d both landed good jobs, and as newbies worked long hours, sometimes only seeing each other on the weekends. We thought that was normal, what kids our age did. Our careers grew, and my business took off. Life was great.

  Then Wanda got pregnant.

  I was ecstatic.

  She was furious.

  She blamed me, our lives, sex, work. You name it, she blamed it. She threatened to abort the child, but I convinced her not to, promising nannies and au pairs and whatever the hell else she wanted. Finally, she calmed down, and as the baby began to show, even seemed to enjoy the attention, but it was the fault line of our marriage. Although she acted the part of happy expectant mother, she grew more distant throughout the pregnancy, and a gap spread between us I felt helpless to bridge. Maybe a baby made it all too real somehow, made her realize what she did and did not want.

  But a baby? Me?

  We didn’t make the want list.

  By the time Suzie was born, the San Andreas stretched between us but I fell so completely in love with Suzie, she filled the space Wanda left behind. Wanda returned to work right away, and even though she didn’t care about us anymore, I made up my mind to keep trying, for Suzie’s sake. So I ignored the last-minute meetings, the strange hotel charges, the vaguely familiar scent on her clothes, the unreturned phone calls.

  Until she didn’t return at all, something even I couldn’t ignore.

  And to add insult to injury, she let me know she had stolen information from my company and slept with my best friend.

  It was still painful, but when I looked over at Claire, I realized we both needed to share. Her past was obviously painful too. She waited, her expression receptive.

  Inspiration hit.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” I said. “I’ll tell you about ‘her’, if you’ll tell me about ‘him’.”

  “Him?” Her face went pale and she put her cup down, then drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. Talk about gut-level defensive posture.

  “I’m not sure I can do that.”

  “A question for a question then, tit for tat?”

  She bit her lip, squirming, and I wanted to tuck her under my arm, but I knew she wasn’t ready for that.

  “We can always stop, whenever you want.”

  She focused on my face, debating, perhaps, whether she could trust me. Finally, she grabbed a throw pillow and held it to her chest like a shield.

  “Okay.”

  I gave an inner sigh of relief. “Then you start. What do you want to know?”

  “How did you meet?”

  “At UVA, junior year, a frat party. Where did you meet him?”

  “College too. My junior year at William and Mary. Was your wife attractive?”

  “Very. Long blonde hair, long legs, big boobs.” I shrugged ruefully. “Every boy’s wet dream. Does he have a name?”

  She hesitated, then blurted out, “Jim.” She closed her eyes, as if assessing her pain threshold. She took a deep breath, then opened her eyes again. “Does she?”

  “Wanda.” The fast pace seemed to calm her nerves a bit, so I shot her another short one. “Was Jim handsome?”

  “Very. Blond, blue eyed, muscular.”

  “I hate him already.”

  Her eyes looked pained, but she smiled halfheartedly and no longer clutched the pillow to her chest. She reached for her cup and took a long drink, thinking. “Tell me two good traits about Wanda.”

  I leaned back. Now we were getting somewhere. “She was funny. She could tell jokes really well, great punch lines. I could always find her at parties by following the laughter.”

  “That’s one.”

  “And she dressed really well.” I took another sip of my cooling coffee. I liked that we were keeping things light. “How about Jim? Two good things.”

  She sucked in her breath and studied the fire. “He made me feel like I was the only girl in the world, the way he’d look at me, listen to me.”

  “That’s a pretty good trait.” A hard one to beat, I thought, irritated. “And?”

  “He could throw a mean Frisbee. We used to play all the time in the Sunken Garden at school.” She stared into the fire, remembering, and I felt a flare of jealousy. Maybe I wasn’t ready for her memories after all. Suddenly, I felt the need for a bit of comfort.

  I scooched closer and pulled playfully on her shoe. She blinked at my hand.

  “Are you doing okay so far? With the questions?”

  She rubbed her ear nervously. “I think so.”

  “Then name two not-so-good things.” I slid her felt clog off and massaged her foot. I needed to touch her. “Does that feel okay?”

  She closed her eyes and smiled. “Hmmm, yeah. That feels great.”

  I lifted her feet into my lap and started massaging them one at a time. Part of me felt pathetic, so desperate to touch her that I was resorting to toes now, but another part felt really good, comfortable and intimate. She relaxed another notch. My instincts told me I was on the right track.

  “Still good?” I asked.

  She wiggled her toes. “Great.”

  “Okay. Now two not-so-good.”

  She balled her hands into fists and clutched her pillow again. Her voice was so low I could barely hear her.

  “He cheated with my best friend and later tried to rape me.”

  The need to pound the bastard into the ground gripped me, but I willed myself to stay calm and not spook her. I kept stroking her feet, angry, yet saddened too, and honestly, not terribly surprised. I knew from the other night something traumatic had happened, way beyond a simple breakup. I also knew she would love, when she loved, completely, passionately, and with all her trust. The fires of such a betrayal would annihilate her.

  She hid her face in her pillow for several minutes, and I gave her time, caressing her feet. I wanted her to feel my comfort, that she wasn’t alone. Finally, she seemed a little calmer.

  “Feel better?” I asked gently, still massaging her feet.

  She assessed herself again, then nodded, and a tentative smile warmed her face. “Actually, I feel a lot better. I’ve never talked about this before.”

  “I’m sure it’s hard to.”

  “It…the whole thing…devastated me. The last two years have been really hard, so hard I gave up teaching and moved in with my sister.”

  “And you’ve been there ever since?”

  “Until this job came up. She’s been great, her whole family has, but I thought it might be time.” She sighed and looked at the ceiling. “Now I’m not so sure.”

  I thought carefully before I spoke again, afraid to say the wrong thing. “May I share something with you? My two not-so-good?” I focused on my fingers still kneading her toes.

  “Of course.”

  “Wanda cheated on me with my best friend, Miles.”

  She stiffened.

  “And she tried to destroy my company.” I clutched her foot. It hurt. After all this time, it still hurt like a son of a bitch. “We’d been married for six years. I had suspected the cheating, but I never thought s
he’d betray my work.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She stole some important marketing bids from me and sold the information to my competition. She laughed when she told me, as if I were a fool for not suspecting her all along.”

  I looked at Claire, at her pillow and her red-rimmed eyes, then back at the fire, reliving the pain.

  Yeah, I knew what betrayal felt like.

  “And Miles?”

  “I’ve never really blamed him. I knew what he was. I’m sure she offered and he took. End of story.” I didn’t need to tell her Miles didn’t have a conscience, never had. I’d watched him sucker punch others our entire lives, but never thought he’d do it to me.

  It was the sucker punch to end all sucker punches, a one-two knockout. But I still had Suzie in my corner.

  “And you had Suzie, so you couldn’t just walk away.” Claire reached out and touched my cheek.

  “Nope. Couldn’t. Still can’t. And I feel gut-kicked every time I have to see Wanda or Miles.”

  Claire withdrew her feet from my lap, then slid over and hugged me. “You’re not a fool,” she whispered.

  I put my arms around her and we held each other, sharing our pain, our devastation at the hands of others for a little while. For the first time in years, the hole in my chest didn’t throb with pain. It felt like a festering wound finally lanced—tender and couldn’t take much prodding, but better. I basked in Claire’s warmth, hoping she felt the same, feeling ragged edges close and finally seal under her soothing hands.

  Then I felt Claire’s hands still.

  And Sharon staggered in.

  Chapter Nine

  Claire

  I noticed Sharon first. She stood behind the couch, swaying, one light push away from ending sprawled on the floor. She swung her coat and purse toward a chair, and predictably missed. Her face, however, displayed a cocktail of emotions—anger and rejection, a dash of humiliation and a twist of regret—a mix she looked too eager to share.