Jennifer Greene - Wintergreen

Lorna had once known him well, yet still she faltered. He was taller and leaner than Richard, his body made up of more sinew than flesh; Matthew had never stood still long enough for any extra weight to settle on him. His gray suit jacket hung open over wide shoulders, and his steel chest was encased in an impeccable white shirt. Thick brown hair brushed his shirt collar and framed a square face with an iron chin, a high forehead and dark brown, almost black eyes-cruel eyes, she thought fleetingly, though never before had they seemed cruel to her.

To others, yes. It was said that he could make a truthful witness stumble on the stand, that he could make the most articulate of judges stammer. The deeply etched lines on his brow only accented the strength of his face. She knew those lines. She saw them in Johnny. It went beyond the perseverance that was a Whitaker family trait. Maybe Matthew couldn’t make a mountain cave in with that look of his, but he could probably come close. No give, she read, and suddenly felt exhausted.

“You were right, Irene. I apologize,” Matthew said suddenly. He turned to the redhead. “I won’t need you anymore this evening.”

“You’re in trouble?”

“I…not trouble exactly, Matthew.” As an opening speech, it lacked something, because that seemed to be the end of it. So much anxiety, so much adrenaline pumping, so many raw nerves… She had been prepared for an angry tirade and the gentleness of his questions had taken her by surprise.

“Sit down, Misha. Just tell me about it,” he suggested quietly.

She leaned back in the chair and glanced up at him. No one but Matthew had ever called her Misha. She had been christened Mishalorna; her great-grandfather had been Russian, and her father had taught the language. But the name had lasted no longer than her infancy. Lorna was so much easier. Richard, especially, had always objected to the exotic hint of the foreign name.

Matthew hadn’t, and a very long time ago his special diminutive had always sounded teasing and affectionate. Now the sound of it sent a swift, strange rush of warmth through her. She grappled with the cool, distant speech she had prepared in her head. “I’m sure you feel I haven’t any right to be here, and I promise I won’t take up much of your time. If you’ll just hear me out-”

“You haven’t changed.”

He was studying her, his eyes skimming over her crossed legs and supple, slim body, apparently assessing the difference nine years had made. His jaw seemed to tighten as he took in soft red lips and expressive gray eyes, the way she brushed her hair back from her forehead, the pale blue knit dress gently molded to her figure.

Disconcerted by his intimate survey, Lorna glanced down and tried to compose her thoughts again. It wasn’t as if he could honestly be happy to see her.

“Misha? Are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

“Yes. Of course.” The thing to do was to get it over with. Lorna focused deliberately on the sheen of the teak desk rather than on those unfathomable eyes of his. There was no way she was going to let this drag on any longer than it had to. “The last time I saw you, Matthew, I was in the hospital. If you remember, you offered me a check for ten thousand dollars from…Richard.”

The room suddenly seemed plunged into silence. She saw Matthew’s impenetrable mask drop; the pulse in his throat was working overtime. Neither of them could forget that day, her son just born and Richard unwilling even to see her again; Matthew visibly upset by the role he was supposed to play in getting rid of her. She could still remember Matthew’s face, the color of ash; the sterile white hospital room; her own shock and despair and the tears that just kept coming. What did you expect? Matthew had demanded. God, Misha, stop it. Why wouldn’t you let me help you before it was too late?

He remembered. She could see it in his eyes. “I hope,” he said in a low, harsh voice, “you’ve got a damned good reason for bringing it up again. I know at the time you didn’t have the sense to cash the check.”

“No.” She met his eyes squarely. “But I need the money now, Matthew.”

He just stared at her, his whole body taut and tense. “Misha, Richard’s been dead for more than eight years. Forget the past for a moment and just tell me what kind of trouble you’re in.” He gave the order quietly, even gently, but it was clearly an order nonetheless.

Lorna shook her head, her hands feeling suddenly shaky. “Matthew, I don’t want anything from you,” she said in a low voice. “But Richard felt he owed me that money. I could have had it then-it was mine.” She swallowed. Her eyes, grave and anxious, never left his. “Demanding something for nothing isn’t my style, Matthew. The thought makes my stomach turn over. But I felt…that was a debt. Your brother-”

“What was between you and Richard had nothing to do with me. I don’t want to hear about it, Misha.”

She’d been expecting just that glacial tone when he first walked in. Not now, after he’d seemed so open…Matthew at his most impenetrable was all ice. She knew he was like this in court, even with his family sometimes, but never before had he been so cold toward her.

His brows were knitted together as he studied her. Then gradually his forehead smoothed out as he watched her eyes cloud with distress. “Misha,” he said gently, “I told you a long time ago that you could always come to me if you were in trouble. There’s no reason to bring the past into it. Just tell me…”

She leaped up from her chair, crossing her arms under her breasts defensively as she walked to the window. His voice had changed from ice to velvet, and a strange sensation shivered down her spine. She’d never thought of Matthew as anything other than an older brother in her short year and a half of marriage, yet seeing him again after all this time… It was different, that was all. She just couldn’t seem to feel the same way. He was not her brother-in-law, not anymore, yet he was still the man she’d shared so much laughter with many years ago. He’d helped her out of that shell of shyness Richard had had so little patience with. Confused for no reason, she touched her fingertips to her temples.

“Misha?”

She turned. “I need the money for Johnny. For my son.”

It was as if lightning had suddenly struck the room; she could feel the close atmosphere of sudden storm, the threat of thunder…and knew she’d been a fool to come here. Her nerve endings suddenly tensed up like a thousand rubber bands stretched taut.

“For help with your son?” Matthew echoed coldly. “Dammit, Misha, how the hell could you have come here about the child? Maybe I could have done something before-you’re the one who shut me out then…” Ebony eyes stared at her, and his voice grew lower. “Unless you’ve already been to the boy’s father-”

Her nerve endings snapped then. “No, I haven’t been to the boy’s father,” she ground out. “And I wouldn’t have, even if Richard were still alive.” Swooping toward the leather chair, she snatched up her purse, her hands trembling and her eyes taking on fire. “And I shut you out then, Matthew, because you wouldn’t have listened. Any more than your brother listened, or your father.” She shook her head wildly, whipping back her chestnut hair. “By that time, I’d had all I could take of the other Whitaker men. I just couldn’t take abuse from you, too, Matthew. You’re so right, all of you. So black-and-white right. You should all have been judges, not merely attorneys. Passing sentence on the rest of humanity from your nice little pedestals-”

“Misha-”

“I don’t care what you think anymore. If it weren’t for Johnny, I wouldn’t have come back here in a thousand years-” Matthew had ripped open the old wound, and the pain seared through her as she remembered the agony of one long, desperate day after another so many years ago. They had charged her with adultery, and she’d had no way to prove her innocence…but it shouldn’t still matter. Richard was dead. The wounds made by his father’s blistering contempt had scarred over. Only Matthew… She’d thought there was just a chance Matthew might believe her now. She should have known better, just from living with Johnny. A Whitaker never forgot or forgave an injustice. It came with the genes. And she was an idiot to have come here. Her eyes blurred with a disgusting film of tears.

Suddenly, she felt Matthew’s persuasive grip on her shoulders.

“Look. Why don’t you sit down for a minute-”

“Just leave me alone-”

“I’ll leave you alone,” he agreed quietly, and promptly didn’t. All she wanted to do was get out of there, yet she felt the backs of her legs brushing against the chair, his hold on her shoulders just firm enough to force her down into it.

She could cheerfully have killed him. “I want to leave,” she announced crisply.

“When you’re in shape to drive,” he replied. “At the moment, you’re in a mood to take on pedestrians at a thousand miles an hour. I think not, Misha.”

He walked behind her, and her fingers pressed so hard into her temples that they left dents. Behind her, she heard the chink of ice against glass. He held a drink in front of her. “No, thank you.” He nudged her fingers firmly around the drink. “Matthew,” she said irritably, “for openers, drinking and driving don’t mix.”

“Speaking as a driver, Misha, I’d take an inch of liquor in that stomach of yours over a mile of temper.” He leaned back against his desk, dangling one leg over one edge. For an instant, his dark eyes glinted with amusement, and then didn’t. “I never meant to upset you,” he said quietly.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Matthew was staring at her; finally she managed to look away, her pulse beating erratically. He was not her brother-in-law now; she could not seem to remember exactly what it felt like to relate to him as a brother. “I shouldn’t have come here,” she said distractedly. “I never really expected you to say yes. I convinced myself that you would, because I knew you would honor your brother’s debts, but it wasn’t exactly a debt. Even then. Richard regarded the ten thousand dollars as payoff money-”