Lorena

 

 

Cindy’s sugar high from her afternoon feast of cocoa and apple turnovers lasts for a solid four hours. I end up chasing her around our snowy yard, building a snow dragon, and making snow angels until we’re both exhausted and starved.

 

Homemade crockpot chicken soup stretched with vegetables is a little plain after such a gorgeous snack, but neither of us mind. She devours two bowls and watches three hours of Christmas specials before she finally runs out of steam. I eat a bowl of it, clean up from dinner, and get a little work done.

 

I rewrite one of my client’s budgets, mend one of Cindy’s dresses, and clean up the kitchen. I sit with her now and again as she watches TV, and we cuddle on the couch under our one good blanket as I stare at the screen, but see James’s smile and hear his voice. I’m stuck on the man, and it would feel nice if I didn’t feel vaguely guilty about it.

 

When Cindy drowses off for good, I carry her to bed and go back to work.

 

My daughter is sound asleep and the house is locked up carefully by the time I settle in for a bit of me-time with my stack of library books. I’m catching up on Dean Koontz as fast as interlibrary loans can get the books to me. They’re like popcorn—a little bland and repetitive, but you really can’t have just one.

 

My room is getting chilly. To save fuel, I turn the heat down to sixty at night and give Cindy the space heater, relying on flannel and down to keep myself warm in my aunt’s high, ridiculously bouncy, iron-framed bed. Right now, my toes are toasty, but the end of my nose feels like I’ve got my head inside my fridge.

 

The big, creaky house feels a little spooky at night. We’ve sealed the insides of all the windows with plastic to keep the heat in, and the drafts pull at them futilely, making tiny crackling noises and pushing at the curtains like ghosts. Downstairs, all the lights are off, with just the hall light and my bedside light cutting the gloom.

 

It’s the darkest time of the year. Ironically, Cindy’s not afraid of the dark at all—but I am. The dark, the cold, the emptiness. Winter’s a bad time for me.

 

I nearly levitate off the bed when my phone rings.

 

I answer at once, worried that the sound will wake Cindy. She’s a deep sleeper, but still. “Hello?”

 

“Miss Lorena? I’m sorry to bother you at this late hour, but I have an odd favor to ask.” It takes me a few moments before I realize that it’s James on the other end. “Is this a bad time?”

 

“I, uh—” Oh God, wait, what’s going on? I feel a little disoriented, and have to check the lettering in my book to make certain I’m not dreaming. “No, no, it’s fine. I was just doing some reading. What’s the favor?”

 

“Well, it’s abrupt, but I was just wondering if you’d like to come out and have a drink with me.” His voice is strained, with that strange note I recognize from when he spoke about the warmth in my small family. There’s that sadness behind it again, and I can’t resist it—any more than I can resist the idea of seeing him again.

 

“I can’t leave my daughter.” I hesitate. I normally wouldn’t let a man I don’t know well into my home with my sleeping daughter, in the middle of the night. But … “I don’t have much here, but if you want to come over?”

 

A pause. “Sure. What’s the address?”

 

I tell him and we hang up, and then the real work starts—trying to get ready to welcome a billionaire into my humble home. I draw the line at getting dressed again. It’s too cold; I’m too tired; and the purple, fuzzy robe is actually the newest piece of clothing I own. But I do hustle around the living room, picking up toys and books, grabbing a stack of papers off the coffee tables and straightening the blue blankets covering both of our couches.

 

I kick the heat back up to seventy for now, and hear the boiler rumble to life in the basement. The heat registers tick as they come on, and I sigh with relief as the first wave of warm air wafts through the living room.

 

I hear his soft knock at the front door a few minutes later.

 

It’s started snowing again, I notice as he comes in trailed by a blast of cold air. He brushes flakes off the shoulders of his forest green parka and then starts taking it off, smiling down at me tiredly. “Thanks for having me. I really needed saner company than I’m dealing with back home.”

 

“I’ll make us some tea.” I point him at the tiny coat closet, and turn to go put my battered red enamel kettle on. It came with the house, just like the furniture, the linens, and all the cabinets and drawers full of my aunt’s knickknacks that I’m still going through. I’m just filling the pot and lighting the aging burner with a match when he pokes his head in.

 

“Hi,” I greet him calmly, though it’s a little alarming that he suddenly seems almost desperate for my company. “Peppermint all right?”

 

“That’s fine.” He walks over to one of the mismatched, padded chairs I set around our breakfast nook table, the old wood creaking under him. “Seriously, thanks for having me.”

 

“What happened? If you feel like talking about it, I mean.” I speak carefully, not sure what I’m inviting him to unload.

 

He sighs. “The short version is that my ex has spent the entire evening driving me crazy, embarrassing my mother, and making one brother glad that he’s married and the other glad that he’s gay.” He snorts. “Plus, my sister-in-law hates her as much as I do, but blames me for Andrea being around.”

 

I wince. I don’t normally get into strangers’ problems, since I can barely carry my own, but it doesn’t mean I don’t care. If anything, I usually care too much. “So you called me so late because this is the first chance you had to slip out?”

 

He shakes his head. “I was trying to just get through the evening. But she decided to try to pick the lock on my bedroom door so she could slip into my bed and seduce me.”

 

“That’s … crazy. She was actually out there with a hairpin or something?” Who is this woman?

 

“Credit card. She kept at it for twenty minutes and I just gave up trying to sleep and left.” His expression softens then, those gorgeous eyes gazing into mine hypnotically. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get away sooner, honestly. Somehow I think you’d have been better company this evening.”

 

A sound comes out of my mouth that’s something between a scoff and a laugh, my cheeks prickling with heat. Oh boy. “I spent my afternoon and evening chasing my kid around between work errands. She was flying on sugar. I think she left footprints on the ceiling in places.”

 

He laughs, the tensions slowly clearing from his face. “See? Much better company. I can already tell.”

 

That surprises me. Most men I have met, except for Manny and his dad, are indifferent at best when it comes to sugar-crazy two-year-olds. But liking kids and having patience with them is also a good sign, I catch myself thinking.

 

Wait. A good sign of what? This guy doesn’t have any interest in me besides being friendly and getting his mom some good help. There’s no way he’s … interested.

 

Except here he is in the middle of the night waiting patiently while I scrape the bottom of my box of peppermint tea, telling me that he’s here because he needs the company of someone who is nothing like his apparently shrewish ex. How can I ignore that?

 

And if he is interested, how can I resist?

 

Manny. The surge of guilt nearly makes me spill the tea. Were he alive, I would never cheat. But it’s been two years. I’m lonely. And apparently, so is James.

 

My hands shake a little as the idea of moving on rolls into my head for the first time since Manny’s death. It’s this girlish crush. It’s making me stupid. He hasn’t actually said anything about being interested in me sexually or romantically, so I shouldn’t assume.

 

But what if he is interested?

 

My toes curl inside my slippers and I clumsily manage to finish putting the tea together. I can feel his eyes on me the whole time. I glance back through the archway into the living room and see that he’s moved, with him now sitting on my shabby couch with his legs crossed, eyes focused on me thoughtfully. What does he want?

 

“Did you want to tell me what happened?” I ask as I bring him his mug of tea. Our fingers brush as he takes it, and it’s all I can do not to drop it in his lap. Oh boy. “I mean, I’d probably make a crappy bartender, but you don’t usually see people going out in a snowstorm to hang out with a near stranger and avoid their family.”

 

“Not my family. Just my ex.” He sighs. “Andrea might be the perfect arm candy for the paparazzi, but she’s just not my type, and she doesn’t get that.”

 

He watches as I sit on the couch across from him. “And worse, she’s decided to manipulate my mother into helping her get access to me. My mother just wants to see me settled, and Andrea knows just how to take advantage of that. That is the whole reason she was able to butt in on our Christmas.”

 

“That sounds horrible.” It does, though I’m a little surprised that he doesn’t just tell Andrea to step off and leave his family alone. Maybe her manipulation of his mom prevents that. If she needs an assistant, she might not have the energy to devote to fending off that kind of family drama. “I don’t get why she still thinks that she has a shot, though.”

 

“Most men in my position don’t marry for love. We find someone beautiful and basically use her for sex, connections, and to make us look good—in exchange, they get access to our fortunes. She expected the same from me, and she doesn’t understand that I’m not into it.” He gives me a small, tight smile and then takes a sip of tea. “Mm, this isn’t bad. What brand?”

 

“I grew it.” Making the backyard into a working vegetable and herb garden took me two years, thanks to my lack of time. The things that have really flourished so far besides the native chicory are the mint plants.

 

Peppermint for the stomach. Spearmint and chocolate mint for flavoring. Catnip for nerves, and because Cindy gets so excited when there’s a kitty in the yard.

 

If Manny’s money finally comes through for us, I’m getting her a pair of kittens. Until then, her snow bunny is wrapped in the Sunday comics and waiting by the hearth.

 

He blinks in surprise and smiles. “It’s lovely. Good and strong, no chemicals. So you’ve got a garden going? My mother wants one but has a bit of a black thumb.”

 

“I can help her there.” I take a swallow of my tea, and then add in a bit of the last of our honey. I move carefully, handling the raw local honey like gold; the jar was a gift, and I don’t know when I can replace it. “Did she express any interest in having me work for her?”

 

“A great deal, actually.” He takes another generous swallow of the mint tea and smiles thoughtfully. “No cat allergies, right?”

 

“No. I like them, and Cindy adores them.” The neutral subject seems to be calming him down; he’s relaxing, smiling more. Or maybe it’s the company.

 

And maybe I shouldn’t punish myself just for speculating on that. Can’t a girl dream a little? “I’d have to get a look at your land to tell what will grow in the yard, and what would need to be grown in frames or pots and brought inside in winter.”

 

“That’s lovely. I’m sure this will work out.” He fingers his mug for a moment—a big blue ceramic whale with the tail forming the handle, part of my aunt’s eccentric collection. “Don’t suppose you’ve ever handled an eviction of an unwanted guest?”

 

I let out an awkward laugh. “Um, well, that’s the part I can’t understand. Does your mother like her so much that she will just let her stay even if she’s causing problems?”

 

He chuckles and lowers his head, his smile looking a lot more like gritted teeth for a moment. “Oh God.” He looks up at the ceiling, collecting his thoughts.

 

“My mother is a very sweet, very nice woman, who, like you, is a fairly recent widow. She had fifty good years in with Dad, but that doesn’t make her miss him less. It makes her pretty lonely.

 

“I try to get up here every weekend, but Andrea befriended her to help lighten my load back in the day, and I was stupid and supported that. Then things with Andrea went to hell and I discovered she’s been using us all. My mother, though, can’t quite grasp that her ‘friend’ isn’t worth trying to repair things with.”

 

I realize that I’m sitting there staring at him with my orange floral mug halfway to my mouth, and hastily take a sip before setting the tea aside. “I’m so sorry. Maybe if your mother was less lonely, it would hurt her less to kick this fake friend to the curb? I could help.”

 

I know all about being that desperately lonely. In the early days of my widowhood, when I was stumbling around without direction or anyone to go to, predators started to seek me out. They were like sharks scenting blood in the water.

 

Some of them infiltrated my online support groups looking for victims to use for sex, attention, and cash. They circled around, spewing false sympathy and understanding, telling me they were there if I ever needed to talk. All the while, they were planning to use every single thing I told them as leverage to get what they wanted.

 

Unfortunately for them, I was loyal to both Manny and his child, and when they pushed too much, I got angry. Then they would see something in me that was too strong for them to bother with, and flee.

 

Unfortunately, that type of man has been the only kind of person to show any real interest in talking to me, outside of my three fellow widows.

 

I’ve tried to be understanding about how my friend pool suddenly dried up. Depressed people are depressing to be around. But when I lost Manny, I saw too much of the worst side of people—including people I thought I knew, and once counted as friends. How easily so many abandon others in need, or see them as wounded prey.

 

“You look very sad suddenly,” he says in a low, musing voice, instead of answering my question.

 

“I can sympathize with your mom. That’s all. I understand about being an isolated new widow. It does leave you vulnerable, especially if you trust the wrong people.” I gaze at him wistfully.

 

Please don’t be the wrong person for me to trust. Please don’t be using me, or planning some screwed-up prank. I’m tired of feeling like we lost the last good man on Earth when Manny died.

 

“Andrea has a real nose for people in pain. I worry that she might try to exploit you too if you run into her before I can get her to leave.” He actually sounds worried.

 

I can’t help but smile. “I don’t plan to let her ask me for any favors. And I don’t know why she’d talk to me. I mean, people like her … don’t notice people like me.” So why do you? I want to ask, but bite back the question because I don’t want to offend him. He might genuinely be interested. He might genuinely be trying to be nice.

 

“She’ll notice you soon enough if she sees that I’ve noticed you.” His mouth works, and I see the disgust in his eyes and realize that he’s trying to warn me.

 

I feel a little dubious about his whole situation all of a sudden. How broken up are they if she’s still hanging on with both hands? Can she be as crazy as he says, or is he one of those guys who call all their exes crazy gold diggers?

 

We’re staring at each other silently now, I realize suddenly, and hastily drain my tea to fill the silence. “So your ex just won’t leave, and she’s using your mother as a ticket to stay around and bother you. Maybe you should get a hotel room. That might alert your mother to the fact that there’s more of a problem going on than she has let herself see.”

 

He sits back, a little frown on his face as he mulls the idea over. “Well, the approach has its merits, but I’m wondering just how effective that would be. It would upset my mother, but would probably cause less strife than whatever Andrea will get up to. And no matter how things turn out, I will end up with some breathing room.”

 

“That’s the spirit.” I give him a tiny, forced smile.

 

“Yes, well. I have occasional moments of brilliance, even when I’m tired from the road—and Andrea.” He rubs his face, takes another big swallow from his mug, and sets it aside, looking around. “I notice that the place is rather sparse.”

 

My cheeks start heating up again, and my gaze drops to the tops of my slippers. “Yes.”

 

“Didn’t you want a tree or some decorations? Or a gift for yourself?” He’s looking at the snow bunny, wrapped in newspaper—a bright one, but still a newspaper.

 

He’s not getting it. Of course not, he’s rich. I let out a sad little laugh, and rub my temple. “It doesn’t matter what I want for myself or my little girl for Christmas. We can’t get it because there is no money.”

 

He blinks for a moment, and I nod sadly to myself. Just from the look on his face, I know he’s never had to go hungry so that someone else could eat. He’s never wondered where the rent is coming from, or whether there will be money to pay for heat next week.

 

“I didn’t realize,” he says finally, and then shoots me another confused look. “Don’t you have any friends that could help?”

 

I can’t help it. I laugh. “Around here? Do you have any idea how the standard New York rich conservative treats people who have to depend on charity to survive, even if we work more than full time? I don’t have any friends.”

 

He blinks in shock. “Then … there’s no family, no husband, no friends … no Christmas? Not at all?”

 

I have to squash a surge of anger. How can he be this dense? The guy really must have lived a very spoiled, privileged life if he’s having that much trouble processing the reality of my life. “Just the one present for my daughter, and we are lucky to have that.”

 

“I’m sorry, you mentioned that you work so much, and so …” He shakes his head. “How can you work more than full time and still be struggling like this?”

 

Now I want to cry. But I just keep that fake smile on. “Welcome to life outside the one percent. It’s not very pretty, and it’s not very fair.

 

“I’m not lazy. I’m not unskilled. And I probably put in way more work in a week than anyone you have ever met. But this, along with the VA denying me my husband’s death benefits, is what I wake up to every day.”

 

I stare at him defiantly. I’m suddenly so angry that I don’t care if he rejects me. If he does, he’s not the man I had a crush on anyway. He’s just another Hollywood fake, and the James I’ve come to have a real crush on, just another role.

 

I prepare myself for that, just as I once prepared myself when the two plain-clothed men from the Department of Defense showed up on my doorstep the day I was told I’d become widow. But what I see on his face instead of disdain is confusion and grief.

 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs in such a gentle tone that it makes my heart ache. “I’ve always tried to be sympathetic toward others, but I live in a certain bubble. I know that. I don’t have any acquaintance with the kind of hardships that you describe, and I wish that you didn’t either.”

 

I lick my lips and look down, hearing him move over and sit on the couch beside me. Not near enough to touch, but when his weight settles on the couch with me it feels as intimate as a caress. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Manny and I worked hard. We were young and responsible. The VA was supposed to take care of us, even if something happened to him.”

 

I can’t keep the confusion, grief, and anger of the last two years out of my voice. Knowing that our men died for our country, just for our country to turn around and forget every promise it made us … it still stings. The honor of soldiers still exists, but the honor of their ultimate leaders seems to be gone.

 

He reaches over and puts his huge hand over mine, and I turn my head to see his blurry form leaning toward me. “I’m sorry. Again, I fully admit, I don’t understand. Maybe I … maybe I just wanted to believe that the world was a fairer place than this. But I suppose that I should know better.”

 

The self-deprecating irony in his voice disarms me, and I wipe my eyes with my free hand, a little impatient with myself. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t unload all my problems on you.”

 

“It’s fine. I just unloaded some of my problems on you, after all.” He leans back a little, considering me. “You know, when I ordered us turnovers in the cafe, I swear that you looked at them like the waitress had brought you a basket of gold. Even Cindy looked more excited than I’m used to seeing.”

 

He’s puzzled, not condemning. I squash a fresh surge of embarrassment. “That’s because we haven’t had a treat like that in a very long time.”

 

I’m not used to people knowing just how badly off I am. “I’m not looking for any handouts or anything. I don’t want your pity,” I mumble.

 

“You don’t have it,” he assures me. “I would have to look down on you to pity you, and I don’t.”

 

I look up at him again, slowly, and see the warmth in his eyes. “In fact,” he murmurs, moving closer as his hand squeezes mine gently, “I would say you’re one of the bravest women that I have ever met.”

 

The floor seems to tilt under me a little. I swallow, staring at him, unable to believe the tenderness in his gaze. Tears fill my eyes then, and I look away, out the undecorated window at the black street beyond.

 

“I know you won’t ask me for help. You’re not the sort, are you? Not looking for handouts at all, even when you desperately need it.” He sounds a little astonished, and I sniffle and give him a wan smile.

 

“I’ve never asked anyone for more than my baby and I need,” I say honestly. He’s still holding my hand, the warm smoothness of his palm cradling the back of mine almost tenderly, and it sends tingles shooting up my arm. The warmth melts away my grief and my shame, as if it were a layer of ice around my heart.

 

“You should be asking for more. You deserve more.” He’s stroking the back of my hand now. My knees clench together under my nightgown. Is this affection, or is he seducing me? Is there a difference, aside from whether his heart is in it or not?

 

“Around here … nobody likes a freeloader,” I murmur—and am startled when he laughs.

 

“My God, you’re the anti-Andrea. Lorena, dear … please. I’m asking you, as a favor to me, let me do something for you and Cindy for Christmas.” The plea in his eyes startles me into silence, and he goes on. “The job opportunity is a happy coincidence. I’m talking about a gift for you, and for your little girl.”

 

I stare at him and draw a deep breath. I want to ask him to save us. To take us under his wing, to protect us and help us out just enough that I can get by until that damned death benefit finally comes through.

 

But he’s talking about a Christmas gift, not a long commitment. My brows draw together as I try to let my mind venture out from “what we need most desperately” territory to “what it would be fun to have” for the first time in years. It takes me a minute.

 

“Coats,” I manage finally. “Heavy down coats. Something that’s actually warm enough for me and for Cindy. Hers in pink. It’s her favorite.”

 

He blinks in surprise, and then offers a faint, wistful smile. “That’s … not much of a gift.”

 

“Have you ever been out in a New York winter for a long time without a proper coat? I walk dogs as part of my living. Trust me, it’s a great gift.” But then my tentative smile fades as uncertainty fills me. “I don’t have anything to give you in return, though.”

 

“Well, that’s not entirely true,” he replies in a tone so smooth it sends a shiver through me. His eyes hood slightly. “Though to be completely honest, what I want for Christmas from you is not something I can expect as a gift from anyone who feels obliged to give it. It’s only given by someone who wants to receive it back.”

 

He’s moved closer to me and our knees are almost brushing now. I swallow, amazed that this is happening, amazed at myself for wanting it to happen.

 

My hand is on his shoulder; I don’t know how it got there. I can feel the warm curve of muscle under my hands, beneath a thin chocolate-colored turtleneck that’s nothing like the giant sweater from earlier. It clings and shifts, sliding like silk across my fingers and molding to every contour of his rippling abs.

 

The sight distracts me until I feel his breath on my face and look up to see his mouth inches from mine. My eyes slide closed as I tremble. This is happening. It’s really, really happening.

 

When he kisses me, something detonates inside of me, and my fingers dig into his back through his shirt. Our bodies press together as he crouches over me on the couch. His mouth is hot and firm, his touch decisive as he takes me into his arms.

 

My head fills with a warm haze, and I kiss him back a little clumsily, my whole body feeling ready to melt into him. He lets out a contented little grunt and intensifies the kiss, his hands starting to slide over my back. Oh, that’s it. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.

 

We keeping kissing and stroking each other and I suddenly don’t know where this is going. I’m losing track of how long we’ve been in each other arms. My body aches with the need for more, in a way I just haven’t felt before. Not even with Manny.

 

Sex with Manny was about tenderness, and giving, and very slowly learning each other. Manny never hurt me, but he never learned to satisfy me either. We were too young, too new at sex, too shy, and he didn’t know how to ask—and neither did I.

 

With one kiss, James has already sent me to another level. My head swims. My heart pounds, and for a long time, all I can feel are the silken caresses of hands and lips on me. The faint buzzing somewhere off in the background is a mere nuisance, like the hum of a fly.

 

But then, before we can move on toward anything further, James reluctantly stops, and I feel him sigh through his nose against my cheek. He breaks the kiss and draws back gently, and I look up at him in hazy-eyed confusion. “Phone,” he mutters apologetically. “Only family has this number.”

 

Damn, I think, but I don’t speak it aloud. Family needs are family needs, even if I’m an inch from dragging him up to bed.

 

He leaves me shivering and tingling all over as he checks the phone screen and then answers it. “Mom? What are you doing up so late?”

 

My heart sinks. Even before the concern in his eyes ignites into anger, I know. I might have a lot of baggage of my own … but it’s his baggage that’s pushing us apart right now.

 

“Look, I went out for a drink because Andrea kept trying to get into my room.” He listens, and huffs a sigh. “Oh, she did, did she? Good thing I’m not in town yet. I’ll be back soon.”

 

I watch him lie to his mother to hide where he really is, and feel a weird mix of guilt and worry. But if his mother’s reporting everything back to Andrea because she mistakenly trusts her, then it’s at least a little understandable. I still watch and listen, wary of any little warning sign that I might be offering my trust to the wrong man.

 

He hangs up and shoots me that same apologetic look, with a hint of the same frustration I feel. “I’m so sorry. The last thing I want to do is kiss and run, but Andrea’s out literally searching the streets for my car, and I don’t want her finding it parked in front of your place. The last thing you need is her on your back.”

 

“No, I don’t need that at all.” Maybe I don’t need any of this drama. My body might ache from the sudden withdrawal of his touch, but if the price is harassment, I’m not sure I can take much of it. “Thank you. I … will you call me?”

 

My voice sounds almost pitifully sad, and the guilt on his face deepens. “You said coats. You’ll have them. And a surprise, as well. I promise.”

 

I blink at him. “What … kind of surprise?”

 

He winks. “You’ll see.”

 

He kisses me a last time before he walks out, leaving me watching him breathlessly through the front window as he walks away. My lips still tingle, and my head’s full of confusion now. Should I be happy? Or should I be running in the other direction?