In From the Cold (11 page)

After their bath and a book, the girls quickly fell asleep, and I wandered back into the great room, restless and irritable. I built a small fire, poured a glass of wine and sat on the sofa, my legs stretched toward the flames. I thought back to our second night here. Had that only been a week ago? I’d been out of my tired, tipsy mind that night, but I had no excuse for my actions this past week. Now, my mind and heart unguarded, I was open and vulnerable in all the ways I’d promised myself I would never let happen again. And when our time was over, Drake would return to his jet-set life, while I would return to my role as the spinster aunt, forever in the way, with no life of my own.

Loser. Imbecile.

I took a big gulp of my wine.

“Hello.”

I looked up. Sharon stood behind the sofa. For once, she didn’t look drunk—just very, very tired. Great.

“Hi.”

“Got any more of that?” She nodded at the wine in my hand.

“Sure. In the kitchen.”

I heard a cabinet door shut and wine pour, then she came back and sank down on the sofa. She kicked off her stilettos and rubbed her feet.

“Oooh. That’s better.” She sighed, then relaxed into the cushions and gulped a mouthful of wine.

I waited for a sarcastic remark or a bitchy comment, but she seemed lost in thought, staring into the fire as she twirled a lock of hair around her finger. She sighed and took another swallow.

“This is good,” she said.

“Yes. I like it.”

She quirked her head at me, as if finally noticing something off. “Where are the girls?”

“Asleep.”

“Ah.”

I expected her to ask about Yvette, maybe about her health or her day, but her silence spooled into the room. It was hard not to show my disgust, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t seem to care about anything or anyone, so she certainly wouldn’t start with me.

“You like kids, I assume?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I don’t. Never have.”

“Never?”

She stopped rolling her hair around her finger, then flicked it over her shoulder. “I know what you’re thinking, so just go on and say it.”

“It’s none of my business.”

“Yvette’s more your business than mine right now, thank God. And she’s obviously far happier with you.” She laughed bitterly.

“Mrs. Lofton.”

“Call me Sharon.”

“Sharon.” I hesitated, wary of this new familiarity, but she plowed on.

“I didn’t want her, you know. I was stupid, like a lot of women, thinking a baby would help. For some reason, women always seem to think a child will tie a man to us.” She stared into the fire. “Miles ran like I’d set the Furies on him.”

“In a way, you did.”

She arched an eye at me, then softly chuckled. “Maybe.”

I wondered briefly why she was telling me this. Did she want my sympathy? Did she think I would understand her pain? What did she want—absolution?

She was right. It was stupid to use a child to mend a broken relationship. The father would only resent both the mother and child. And when her plan backfired, how had she felt?

I thought of Yvette in those summer pajamas.

“When Miles left, did you blame Yvette?”

She looked thoughtful, as if considering the notion, then shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. There was just nothing there, no bonding or something. When she was born, I felt like I should feel some maternal instinct, but there was…nothing.” She shook her head, lay back and closed her eyes. “I don’t know. I gave up trying to figure out my
many
failings years ago. I am what I am, and it is what it is.”

The fire crackled in the silence. For all her bitchiness, I found Sharon’s honesty refreshing. I didn’t like or understand her, but I really didn’t have to.

“You didn’t go to the ballet tonight?”

She studied her wine, took another sip, then shook her head. “I don’t like
The Nutcracker
.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t believe in princes anymore, and I know far too many rat kings—including my ex.” She saluted me with her wineglass.

“I met him yesterday, you know.”

“Met who?”

“Your ex. Miles.”

She sat up, suddenly alert. “He’s
here
? Where was he?” she demanded.

“He was at the ski lodge at Snow King.”

“What was he doing there?” She was so tense, I feared for the stem of her wineglass.

“He told Drake his other plans fell through.” Rage and hurt warred on her face, and I tried to think of something to soothe her. “It sounded like a last-minute thing.”

She closed her eyes, and several moments passed while she visibly tried to relax. A burning log shifted, and red sparks danced up the flue. When she opened her eyes again, her mask of disinterest was back in place.

“How did Drake take seeing him again?”

“Not well.”

“I didn’t think he would,” she murmured. “Did Miles say anything about visiting us here?”

“No,” I said, and she sighed, whether from relief or disappointment, I couldn’t tell.

She returned to the kitchen and brought the half-full wine bottle back with her. She poured herself another glass, and tipped the bottle invitingly toward me. When I shook my head, she sat it on the coffee table and put her feet up beside it, as if we were old chums settling in for a cozy chat. I felt nervous, guarded. While I might feel sorry for her obvious pain, I still didn’t trust her.

She took a big gulp, then stared at me. “How about you?”

“How ‘about me’ what?”

“How are
things
with Prince Drake?”

There it was. I tensed, irritated by Sharon’s new offensive. If she hoped to deflect her pain by stirring up mine, I wasn’t having it.

“He’s not
my
prince.”

She snorted. “He’s not
anyone’s
prince.”

My temper surged. Drake wasn’t perfect, but he didn’t deserve that. “He may not be a prince, but I’ve known my share of rat kings too—and he’s not one of them either.”

Sharon raised her eyebrows. “Maybe not. But he’s still a
man
, and most men are more rat than prince.”

In my present mood, I couldn’t really disagree with her, so I said nothing. I got up and threw another log on the fire, then poked the embers to encourage the flames, stalling.

“So have you fallen yet?” Her question sizzled in the silence, like bacon tossed on a hot griddle.

“Pardon?” I knew what she meant, but this was none of her business.

“Oh, come off it,
Mizzz
Claire.” She rolled her eyes at me, returning to the sarcastic Sharon I knew. “I know what I saw the other night and I know Drake—very well.” She leveled another assessing gaze at me and delicately fanned her hand on her chest. “Don’t get me wrong. I don’t blame you. He’s a very attractive man, and women fall all over him. I’ve seen dozens come and dozens go.” She waved her hand in a lazy circle, the wine kicking in, her words starting to slur. “He’s like some bloody revolving door.” Then she winked at me. “Still, a hell of a ride if you can get a place in line.”

I snapped, my face burning. “Why are you telling me all this? I know. I have eyes.”

“And a heart, I suspect.” She patted her chest dramatically, as if affirming hers was still in place.

“Yes,” I said coldly, tired of her malice and ready to end this discussion. “
I
still have a heart.”

She pushed herself up, staggered over and lazily patted my cheek. “Then hold on to it, honey.”

She had an odd expression on her face—part triumph, part disdain and part something I couldn’t identify. Pity? Despair? As if suddenly aware that her mask had slipped yet again, she twisted away from me.

She tottered slowly toward the hallway. I felt a moment’s relief, happy the end of this painful conversation was in sight, when she turned in the doorway and flung her hand up in a grand oratorical gesture. “I have a theory. And it’s good. It’s about princes.”

She drew in a deep breath, her words slurred around the edges like biscotti dipped in wine. She held up one finger, counting her points. “
Princes
expect you to give them your heart, because they’re princes and they always get what they want.” She held up two fingers. “And rat kings, they nibble your heart away one
little
painful bite at a time, because they’re rats and that’s what rats do. But whether rat king or prince, when all’s said and done—” she jabbed her red lacquered finger at me, “—you’re still left with nothing. Nothing. And no nutcracker is going to save you, not even in your dreams. You have to save yourself.”

And in my heart, I feared she was right.

She wobbled into the wall, then shoved herself straight and wove her way down the hall and down the stairs.

Her “speech” had not helped my mood, and to my disgust, I sat there and brooded for another half hour. I was finally on my way to bed, ready to put paid to this awful day, when I heard the doorbell ring. I was already irritated when I opened the door, but what I found was the final straw.

Miles.

All casual elegance, Miles Lofton leaned against the doorway under the porch light, a bottle of champagne tucked under one arm, a red cashmere scarf hanging over his unbuttoned coat. He looked straight out of
GQ
, his blond hair artlessly styled and his nails manicured, but there was something so contrived
about him that it put me off, like a hothouse arrangement trying to look natural.

“Miss Claire.” He straightened in affected surprise. “Good evening.”

“Mr. Lofton.”

“I hope it’s not too late to pay my daughter a visit.”

Of all the idiotic, specious excuses. It was every bit of ten p.m., long past any toddler’s bedtime. I kept my temper with an effort.

“I’m afraid Yvette has been asleep for the past couple of hours. Perhaps you could call back another time.” Or go to that part of hell reserved for rotten fathers.

“A couple of hours? Really? Why it can’t be more than eight o’clock, surely?” He made a show of checking his watch and feigned dismay at the late hour. He whistled.

“I am so sorry, Miss Claire. I had no idea it was so late. The time just slipped away from me, I guess.”

I said nothing, and hoped my silence would encourage him to leave.

He stood as if in thought for a moment, then switched on a megawatt smile, hoping, I imagined, to dazzle me into compliance. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but you see, I hardly ever get to see Yvette, and with the holidays and all… Well, do you think I might just take a peek at her? While she’s sleeping?”

Was he for real? “Mr. Lofton, it’s late and I’m tired. Yvette is sound asleep and I don’t want to risk waking her or Suzie. Please come back tomorrow when Mrs. Lofton is here.”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid that won’t work. Sharon never stays around long enough for me to see Yvette during the day. She’s always either out or sleeping.”

I couldn’t deny that, but I still wasn’t comfortable letting him in at this hour with only me. Sharon downstairs, drunk or asleep, didn’t count.

“I don’t know if you have the legal authority to see her, Mr. Lofton. Sharon hasn’t said anything—”

He interrupted, flashing his white teeth. “Please, call me Miles.”

I ignored him. “—about whether you have visiting rights or not.”

“Ahh, but I do.” He held up one finger, then reached into his overcoat pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. He handed it to me. It was a legal document, a notice of visitation. He pointed to a paragraph toward the bottom. “I have equal custody with Sharon, and if you look here, you can see that I’m actually the one who has Yvette over the Christmas holidays. I have every right to see Yvette.”

I skimmed it quickly, but I couldn’t find anything limiting his times with her. I doubted Sharon ever thought it would be an issue.

He looked complacent and assured, but I wasn’t giving in that easily. “Still, Mr. Lofton—”

“Miles.”

“Mr. Lofton,” I repeated firmly. “The girls are asleep, together. Mr. Driscoll would not want me to risk waking Suzie, just so you can see Yvette now. It would be better for everyone if you come back tomorrow.”

A spasm of irritation crossed his face. “That doesn’t suit.”

“I’m sorry,” I said sweetly. “Maybe you should contact Sharon for a better time, then. Good night.” I started to shut the door, but he stopped it with the palm of his hand.

“Please, Miss Claire. I’ll only stay a minute, I promise.” For the first time since I’d met him, he sounded sincere. It would still be better if he came back later, but this would also allow him to see Yvette without upsetting her or Drake or Sharon. And it was Christmas.

Reluctantly, I gave in. “All right, but just for a minute.” I opened the door.

“Great! I knew you were a trooper the first time I saw you.”

I turned, and he followed me up to the girls’ room. The night light showed Suzie spooned behind Yvette, her dark, straight hair beside Yvette’s blonde curls, their fingers in their mouths as they slept.

I studied him as he stood above his little girl, watching her sleep. Did he care about her? Did he regret his distance?

He reached down as if to touch her, then pulled his hand back. He tucked the blanket around them, and it reminded me that he had once been someone’s child too. Perhaps his parents had tucked him in. My urge to censure loosened in my chest, and I felt my shoulders relax. Who was I to judge him? With my lapses in judgment, I should be the first one to cut him some slack.

Perhaps that was my misstep, because when he came out of the room and shut the door, I was feeling more charitably toward him. The manipulator in him must have sensed this.

“She is beautiful, isn’t she?” he said wistfully, his hand on the doorknob.

“Yes, she is. She’s a very sweet little girl.”

“Yes.” He looked so sad for a moment, I took pity on him.

“Would you like to come in for a minute, Mr. Lofton? I could make us some tea.”

He shook his head. “No, it’s late, and I’ve troubled you enough.”

“I was going to make some for me, so it’s no trouble.”

He gave a studied pause. “Well, if you’re sure.”