Lorena

 

 

When we walk in the door of the chrome-countered, checker-floored café, I still don’t know whether to reprimand Cindy or thank her. Never in my life would I have dreamed that a man like James Norris would end up taking me out for cocoa, but here he is, holding the door for us.

 

I set Cindy down with a sigh now that we’re out of the cold, and roll my throbbing shoulder before removing the blanket and draping it over one arm. She waits beside me patiently, looking around at everything but staying quiet. I take her hand again and we follow the waitress to a table. James pulls out my chair.

 

As I’m sitting down, my mind’s eye suddenly conjures Manny sliding into the seat across from me as I scoot in unassisted. He was young and artless, but devoted—the kind of romantic who had trouble expressing it. He forgot to pull out chairs. I wince slightly, and hide my expression by quickly snatching up a drinks menu.

 

“Clever of them to sell hot drinks in all these different flavors when it’s this cold out,” James comments as he sits down. He towers over me, even when sitting—a giant compared to me and Cindy. “I understand that Miss Cindy likes the peppermint cocoa. Do you have a preference?”

 

He’s leaning toward me, his voice a deep, friendly purr, and my heartbeat suddenly pounds in my ears. I can’t catch my breath. I can smell his musky cologne, and the faint scent of mistletoe still hanging around him. “I …” I force out, and then look hurriedly down at the menu.

 

Maybe I should have just kissed him and been done with it. It can’t end up more awkward than this.

 

“I’ve never had most of these,” I admit finally, in a soft, hesitant voice. If we ever go for a treat, I get a cup of something very plain and let Cindy revel in her whipped cream-covered delight. I’ve never even heard of most of these drinks.

 

“Well, what appeals?” he asks without missing a beat.

 

I look down the list and pick one, a little desperate to avoid trying his patience. “Um … maybe the salted caramel?”

 

“Salted caramel it is. Clearly you need a treat too, after carrying such a big girl around all by yourself.” His eyes dance even more in person than they used to in my magazines. His charisma pulls at me like a magnet. I might have had a crush on him before, but right now, as I bask in the light of his smile, I forget every one of my problems all at once.

 

How does he do that?

 

He orders two salted caramel mochas and peppermint hot cocoa, all in their biggest size, and a plate of fruit turnovers to share. Cindy bounces happily at the prospect, and I have to admit my mouth waters a little too. I can bake pastries, but unless I have a lull between my jobs there’s no time to do so.

 

Immediately after the smiling waitress walks away, his phone rings. “Ah, sorry,” he says, fishing his phone from his jeans pocket and checking it. He frowns. “It’s family. Please give me a moment.”

 

He turns partially away before putting his phone to his ear. “Yes, hi Mom.” A pause. His smile starts to look a little forced. “No, I ran into a friend in the tobacco shop, and we’re having a hot drink before I drive back up.”

 

I try to distract myself by looking around, but I’m dead curious, and find myself listening in regardless. There’s a certain amount of tension to the long pause that follows as his mother talks, as if he’s listening to a lecture. “Mom, look, I understand that she invited herself to Christmas, but that is between Andrea and you. She and I haven’t had a relationship in several months.”

 

My ears prick up. What?

 

James has been linked for years to the notoriously high-maintenance model-actress Andrea Case. He has never been seen in public with anyone else. But apparently, all of that came to an end earlier this year, while I was too wrapped up in hustling to pay my bills to keep tabs.

 

“Mom, please don’t let Andrea push you around like that. It’s bad enough that she invited herself over for Christmas. This is your home, and I came to visit you. Not her. If she can’t handle my leaving for a while, she can always come join me.”

 

The corner of his mouth curls knowingly; Andrea doesn’t seem the type to brave the snowy streets of Phoenicia, and it seems that he’s counting on that.

 

So Andrea is still following him around even though he’s told everyone that they are quits. She apparently is conning his mom and is trying to control him. And he’s just trying to come down here for a little break or something, but Andrea won’t even allow that. I have a nose for putting stories together, and this one has me intrigued.

 

“Don’t let her worry you, Mom, it’s fine. I’ll be back soon.” He hangs up and puts his phone away, giving me an apologetic look. “Sorry. Family holiday … things, you know how it is.”

 

“Not really,” I reply honestly, which gets me a sharply curious look. “It’s just me and my little one here. My husband died two years ago on deployment.”

 

He blinks in surprise, and his gaze sweeps over us again. I brace myself; he’s taking in the thin puffer jackets we’re wearing, the wool blanket we were using as a shawl, the careful patch in my shoulder bag. I have nothing to be ashamed of; I’m a good person in bad circumstances, and I’m doing the best I can.

 

But … what wealthy man ever sees it that way? Aside from Dr. Whitman and his son, of course. But even they’re considered eccentric—exceptions that prove the rule. This man, James, whom I’ve daydreamed about since I was twelve, has no reason to sympathize. No reason not to dismiss me as cheap, lazy, and just a step above a beggar—if that.

 

My cheeks burn and my eyes sting alarmingly. My stomach shivers with a mix of humiliation and dread. How will he react?

 

“Ah, well then. That’s unfortunate. I thought perhaps that you were here to see relatives.” He seems to want to say more for a moment, but then sits back and smiles at the waitress as she brings our drinks. He seems a little relieved by the interruption.

 

I’m more than relieved. Though after a moment, I realize that the look on his face is more concerned than anything. I push the conversation on to what I hope is more comfortable territory. “So, you’re visiting family?”

 

I know his mother lives in the area. Every local who follows the movie industry at all knows that. But it seems rude to just assume, as if I know about him from anything besides online gossip articles.

 

“Oh yes,” he says, perking up. “My brothers and I visit my mother every year and stay for a few weeks. She’s a bit like the Whitmans—she goes mad for Christmas and everything to do with it. Her house looks like a parade float right now.”

 

That makes me smile. “That’s adorable.” My own house, well … I just can’t afford Christmas lights. We have a tiny tree in the front yard that we trim with peanuts and popcorn and let the birds and squirrels eat, only to string up more the next day. But at night, there’s nothing in my yard but darkness.

 

“I’m sorry if I’ve brought up something that is uncomfortable for you,” he says quietly as he slides our drinks to us. They are each in a huge mug, with a small mountain of whipped cream on top. Cindy’s has a candy cane stuck into it, which she eagerly pulls out and starts using like a dipping stick. I make sure I have extra napkins handy for her before turning back to him.

 

“It’s not like that. We haven’t been on our own very long, and I’m still getting used to Christmases alone.” That part’s true.

 

Even back when my parents were too busy drinking to do anything, my Aunt Erin would always take over, making sure that I had something to celebrate, at least for a few days. After she passed away, I had one Christmas with Manny before he shipped out. And now it’s been two bleak years of Cindy and I fending for ourselves.

 

I just wish I could give her a better life than this. Cindy is as happy and content as I can manage. Fortunately she’s not a demanding kid. But when she gets older, when she’s in school, having a poor single mom will weigh against her socially, just as it weighs against me now.

 

I don’t really have many friends in town. Clients, sure. Nobody has a problem with me doing their books, cleaning their houses, or looking after their pets. They will share a church pew with me, a bus seat, or the counter at the cafe. They just have a problem with being seen with me in any situation where we might be taken for … peers.

 

Even now, I can see the curious looks from locals and shoppers as they see the three of us together; the plain, slightly ragged girl, her adorable but inadequately dressed kid, and the billionaire superstar. I know what some of them must be thinking: what’s he doing with her? And it makes me feel a little better, like I’m thumbing my nose at their stupid prejudice.

 

Relying on charity upstate, regardless of your run of bad luck, wins you no friends, even when you’re a war widow. But James isn’t from upstate. And as I notice he’s still listening to me and has made no move to leave, I really start to relax.

 

“Well, that’s rather sad. And you live in town, then?” He spoons aside some of his cream to keep it from getting on his nose as he takes a swallow of his drink. “Mm. That’s divine. Really, Lorena, you should try this.”

 

I hesitate. It smells decadent enough to make my mouth water, as does the scent of the pastries. I wanted to save it a moment longer, but I need the distraction from the awkward topic.

 

I scoop up the long spoon and nip up a mix of foam, cream, and caramel drizzle on the end of it. I slide it into my mouth … suddenly aware of how closely he’s watching. I lick the spoon clean, the unbelievable mix of rich sweetness and subtle shifts of flavor melting on my tongue. Then I swallow, taking a little gasp of breath in surprise. “Wow.”

 

His smile widens again. “See?”

 

“I need help Mommy!” Cindy announces, and I turn at once to help her hold the big mug and avoid getting cream all over her face. She laughs as she gets a little gob on her nose. I hear James chuckling warmly beside us.

 

I turn back to him and see him looking at us with something I would never have expected. Not pity or amusement, not mockery or barely hidden disdain, but rather … wistfulness. His eyes are sad, with the warm, longing look of a dog staring after his family’s car.

 

“What is it?” I ask him gently, suddenly too arrested by his unspoken sadness to care much whether I make a bad impression.

 

“I’m sorry, I just … your family may be small, but there’s real warmth there. That’s rarer than it should be.” He tilts his head slightly. “So, what do you do for work?”

 

I squash a moment of defensive nervousness and answer the question directly. “A bit of everything. I’ve got a client who I’m a personal attendant for, another one I shop for. I take in packages for a dozen people around town and walk several people’s dogs. I house sit in the off-season. Things like that.”

 

I wish I could describe my scramble to get enough work in half a dozen fields as something more glamorous, or at least difficult. But the real problem is cramming in enough hours of such work to make ends meet. Rich people don’t stay rich by being generous with the help.

 

His eyebrows rise. “Oh. Well, you know, if you have a card or something, my mother’s been looking for a companion. She’s in good health, but she doesn’t drive, and she spends too much time up on that mountain eating out of cans.”

 

My heart jumps. I don’t care that it’s not the kind of relationship I wish I could have with the man. It’s the possibility of a solid job with a client whose refreshingly non-classist son seems to like me. “I—of course. Just give me a moment.”

 

I’m fishing for a card in the bottom of my bag, wishing I had slipped more into my wallet, when Cindy drops her spoon. “Need more help, Mommy!”

 

“Just a minute, hun,” I say distractedly as I dig. Of all the times I’ve carried these cards around and not needed one, now I need one and can’t find it.

 

“Here, let me help.” James quickly moves to offer his own spoon, and Cindy takes it and happily keeps eating the cream off the top of her cocoa.

 

“Thank you,” I say as I finally find one of my simple business cards and hand it over to him. He accepts it, and I settle back to take a swallow of my own drink.

 

I try to savor it. It’s not just a drink—it’s a dessert. This and the turnovers are probably the only real treats I’ll get this holiday. Soon, though, if this client comes through, I’ll be able to afford treats now and again once more.

 

“So what kind of help would your mother need?” It’s an easy topic to jump into.

 

“Besides driving into town and occasionally going to doctor’s appointments, she spends late winter in Florida and will need a sitter for her house and cats. It’s not difficult work; she already has a maid. And she loves kids, so you could probably bring the little princess along.” He winks at Cindy, who looks back at him solemnly.

 

I fight down a laugh at my daughter’s deepening frown. “Uh oh. Now you’ve done it.”

 

Cindy folds her arms. “I’m not a princess. I’m a vampire.”

 

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, my mistake.” James puts a hand on his broad chest and I’m all blushes and stifled giggles again, watching. He gives her a confused look. “But if that’s so, how can you drink cocoa?”

 

“Cocoa’s yummy. Dracula doesn’t drink wine cause he wanted cocoa.” She carefully lifts the mug in both hands and takes a wobbly swallow, only spilling a little. I swoop in with a napkin before the droplets can run down her chin.

 

James is very good with her, I think. At least, from what I’ve seen so far. He also seems very attentive to my moods and needs, which is rare, especially in a stranger.

 

Is he putting on an act to impress me for some reason? Or is he sincere, and just better at showing it than many?

 

I realize that not even Manny was this attentive. Manny, who left a hole in my heart the exact shape of his memory, was a soldier, not a gentleman. Quiet, stoic, who prayed more often than he drank, was shy in bed and yet loving, and spent every minute of his life with me that his military commission allowed.

 

I loved him. I miss him. But he never had a tenth of the charm of the man across the table from me.

 

It’s been two years and change since I’ve let a man touch me—since I’ve even wanted a man to touch me. It’s only ever been Manny. Movie-star crushes are just a way of letting off steam.

 

Until they’re in front of you, flesh and blood, friendly and charming as hell, and the possibility of actually going to bed with them becomes a faint blip on the horizon.

 

Why else would he be so friendly? Is he just horny, or lonely for someone who won’t treat him like this Andrea woman seems to? The idea of his being lonely is a slippery slope by itself. It makes my heart open a crack—and with that comes a surge of guilt, because the man I’m feeling that bit of tenderness toward is not my husband.

 

To this day, I’ll never know what secret assignment Manny was on that left him and half his squad dead, with mourning families trapped in the same red-tape nightmare as I. Four of us wives have no bodies to bury, no explanations of what happened. Nothing to show for our loved ones but the government sending empty letters with official words instead of any consideration, financial or otherwise.

 

How can these men’s service not be acknowledged just because the specifics of their mission have to be kept secret? No one has ever had an answer for us. We’ve been struggling with the help of volunteer attorneys for over eighteen months to get them. But the Veterans Administration has not budged.

 

The other widows and I still keep in touch. We have an email chain that we share legal information and news on, and chat together. Awkward pen pals scattered across the state, reaching out to each other now and again when the pressure gets to be too much and no one else can understand. It is like having four sisters—sisters in blood.

 

“I think I could do all of that for her easily. How many hours a day would she need me?” I am praying that his mother will need me a lot. Almost everything else I do can be shuffled around or done on the way to completing other errands. But a solid job where I can bring my daughter? Where do I sign up?

 

“I’ll talk to my mother and call you with details,” he says brightly as he enters my number into his cellphone. “It won’t be more than a day or two.”

 

“Thank you,” I murmur, still shocked at the sudden opportunity.

 

“Oh, don’t thank me. I haven’t actually had an uninterrupted chat with someone so pleasant since I got here.” He winks. “So perhaps I have a few ulterior motives in recommending you.”

 

“O-oh,” I murmur, blinking, my heart pounding again. Cindy takes one look at my blushing face and starts giggling.