'Tis the Season (12 page)

“He makes dinner,” Gracie informed her, crossing to the refrigerator. “I help. There's leftover chicken.”

“I
hate
leftovers,” Billy said dramatically.

“Well, is there anything else in there?” Filomena asked, peering over Gracie's head at the refrigerator's contents. “Maybe I could get something else started for him.”

“There's hamburgers,” Gracie said, pulling a package of ground beef from a shelf. “You could broil hamburgers.”

“We could make something more interesting than hamburgers.” Filomena checked the package—one
pound, and it looked pretty lean. “What else does your father make with ground beef?”

Gracie and Billy gazed at her, both obviously perplexed. “He makes hamburgers,” Billy said. “He broils them.”

“He broils everything,” Gracie added.

“Oh, come on.” Filomena laughed. “He doesn't broil spaghetti, does he?”

Gracie and Billy exchanged a look and shrugged.

“Let's cook something more exciting than hamburgers. How about…” Filomena turned back to the refrigerator and surveyed its contents. Tomatoes, green peppers—she could make stuffed peppers if Evan had any rice and tomato sauce. She closed the refrigerator and moved to the cabinets, then opened them one at a time until she found the area where he stored food. When she located a box of instant rice, she tried not to curl her lip. Instant rice lacked texture and taste, but it would work in stuffed peppers.

“What are you going to make?” Gracie asked anxiously.

“Stuffed peppers.”

“Is it broiled?” she asked. “Daddy broils everything.”

“We like broiled things,” Billy concurred.

“You'll like this, too. And it's lots of fun to make. Billy, you can scrape the seeds out of the peppers. Gracie, you can help me make the rice.”

The children seemed apprehensive. Filomena kept them too busy to complain or tell her how very much they liked broiled things. Billy did a painstakingly complete job on the peppers once Filomena had cut out the stems. Not a single seed remained when he was done
with them. The instant rice cooked as quickly as the box promised, and Filomena let both Gracie and Billy take turns stirring the rice and seasonings into the meat. They had so much fun stuffing the meat into the peppers, they didn't even notice when Filomena set the oven to the “bake” setting, instead of the “broil” setting.

She'd just slid the tray of peppers into the oven when the sound of jingling keys reached them from the mudroom. “Daddy!” Gracie yelled, jumping down from the chair on which she'd been kneeling. She raced out of the kitchen, Billy at her heels.

Filomena smiled, refusing to take their abandonment personally. Evan was their father—obviously a devoted, loving father, given how eager they were to greet him. Once again she wondered why his wife had left him and their children, and why no other woman had staked a claim on his heart.

The children were chattering loudly, dragging Evan into the kitchen. “It's not broiled,” Billy was saying, half a warning and half a cheer.

And then her gaze met Evan's, and the kids and their clamor seemed to vanish.

Only for an instant. Only for the briefest blink of time, she gazed into his glowing silver eyes and felt as if he were her man coming home to her, tired but content, wanting only to be where she was, where she waited for him.

He did look tired, she recognized as reality rushed back in, the spell broken as the children continued to yap about the stuffed peppers and their contributions to the meal. “I got the seeds out,” Billy boasted. “All Gracie did was measure the rice. I did the hard part.”

“Measuring the rice was hard!”

“Anyone can measure rice. Getting the seeds out—”

“Okay, guys,” Evan cut them off. “I'm sure you both did plenty. Now, why don't you scram for a few minutes so Filomena can explain what's going on.”

“Fil,” Gracie corrected him as she headed out of the kitchen. “She likes to be called Fil.”

The children were gone. The room grew peaceful, silence wrapping around her and Evan until she felt uncomfortable in its intimacy. She turned to the oven and lowered the door to check on the peppers. Evan remained where he stood, on the other side of the counter near the table, the warrior returning home after a day of battle, tie loosened, leather briefcase in hand.

“I didn't hire you to cook for us,” he said quietly. He didn't sound angry. More bewildered, and a bit concerned.

“I know,” she said, still facing the oven. She was afraid that if she turned around, she'd experience that same strange sensation she'd felt when he'd first entered the room—only, now they were alone, without the children to shatter the mood. She didn't want to feel as if anything beyond employer-employee existed between her and Evan. It was foolish, pointless, her imagination performing cartwheels. Nothing more.

“I thought preparing a meal would be a fun way to keep the kids busy,” she explained.

“Apparently it worked. Billy got the seeds out.”

She couldn't tell from his voice whether he was annoyed. It occurred to her that if he was, he'd be fully within his rights. Mustering her courage, she turned back to him. “I'm sorry. It was presumptuous of me to fix dinner. I guess you prefer things broiled.”

He smiled. He had the most complex smile she'd ever
seen, part amusement, part bemusement. Part happiness, part caution. Pleased yet self-protective, open but not too open. “We eat things broiled because broiled is the only way I know how to cook food,” he explained. “Stuffed peppers sounds pretty elaborate—and I wouldn't place bets either way whether the kids are going to eat them.”

She suffered a pang of regret. “I should have just prepared hamburgers,” she said. “Then you could have broiled them and the kids would have eaten them and—”

“Thank you,” he cut her off, sounding so sincere she believed his gratitude was real. “If you can perform miracles in the oven, you can probably perform miracles on the children. Can you do me one favor, though?”

“Anything.” His thanks notwithstanding, she felt guilty about having meddled in his meal plans.

“Stay for dinner and make them eat it.”

She wanted to protest that he didn't have to feed her. He was paying her to do a job, and she'd already skirted close to blowing it. The last thing he ought to be doing was rewarding her by including her in his family's dinner for a second night in a row.

But when she analyzed his invitation, she realized he really was asking a favor of her. Since the kids had helped her prepare the meal, they'd be more likely to eat it if she was present. They'd be less likely to complain that it wasn't what they were used to.

Besides, Evan looked exhausted. She couldn't imagine him coming home after a draining day and having to prepare dinner himself, and deal with Billy and Gracie. Maybe he wanted her there just because he didn't have the strength to take on his rambunctious children right now. He might simply be asking her for help.

“All right,” she said. She did want to help. Not because he was paying her, not because she felt guilty, but because he was Evan and for that one simmering moment she'd felt so strongly connected to him, she couldn't bear to leave him when he needed her.

Right now, he needed her. She knew it as well as she knew the shade of her back porch, the scent of her candles, the messages the queen of spades and the five of hearts carried in a plain old deck of playing cards. Evan Myers needed her.

“I'll stay,” she said.

G
RACIE NIBBLED
at the meat and rice, poked the shell of the green pepper with the tines of her fork and pronounced the meal delicious. Billy actually ate a few bites of his pepper and most of his meat, although he carefully separated all the grains of rice from it.

Evan didn't care if they didn't finish their meals. It wasn't as if they were going to starve to death. And anyway, he had more important things on his mind than whether his kids cleaned their plates. As soon as he realized they were spending more time pushing their food around than consuming it, he excused them from the table and they bolted out of the kitchen, arguing over who was going to hold the remote control while they watched TV.

When they were gone, he was left alone with Filomena—who shouldn't have been the most important thing on his mind. But she was.

He'd had an unusual day—a surprisingly good one, considering how it had started. Tank Moody had done a fabulous job in New Haven. He'd been ingratiating and funny with the customers. He'd posed for snapshots with fans, flirted with gray-haired ladies, discussed sports with paunchy men and emptied the store's entire stock of Tank Moody jerseys and footballs, all of which he autographed with patience and good humor. He'd stayed at the store forty-five minutes longer than he'd been scheduled to,
just because people kept coming in and wanting his autograph. Evan hadn't had to do anything except keep Tank's glass of ice water filled and help the store manager and clerks maintain order among the hordes of fans.

They'd journeyed back to Arlington in the limo, and Tank had dropped him off with a promise to meet him next week for the promotion in New London. Evan had returned to his office to find no major catastrophes awaiting him. Jennifer had badgered him a bit about Pep Insoles, and he'd warned her that if she didn't bug off, he'd make her do the New London promotion with Tank. The threat worked; she'd avoided mentioning insoles for the rest of the afternoon.

He'd telephoned his friend Murphy and asked him about the Daddy School. “It's great,” Murphy said—which wasn't really what he'd hoped to hear. “I don't remember much about it, except that it's thanks to the Daddy School that I'm married to Molly's sister.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Gail and I went to the Daddy School classes together. I think Molly coerced us into going because she was playing matchmaker.”

“How did that make you a better father?”

“It didn't. I was already the best damned father in Arlington.”

Evan hadn't exactly been persuaded that the Daddy School would do him any good. He wasn't looking for a wife. Even if he were…

His gaze zeroed in on Filomena.

No, he wasn't looking for a wife—but it sure had been nice to walk into his house and have a woman waiting there for him. It had been nice to be greeted by his children and the enticing aroma of something delicious roast
ing in the oven. It had been nice to come home to a warm, well-lit, welcoming place, and to have an adult sitting across the table from him while he ate.

“This is really good,” he said, scooping another stuffed pepper from the platter. His third, but he didn't care if he was making a pig of himself. The kids might be satisfied with broiled something for dinner every night, but he appreciated variety.

“The children hated it,” she said pensively.

“The children have no taste,” he said, then smiled because she seemed worried. “Really. This is a treat for me. I don't expect you to be cooking dinner for us every night.”

“I'm sure the kids will consider that good news,” she said. He detected the hint of a smile on her lips.

“Tell me about your day,” he said. He was tired of thinking about his own obligations, his overbooked schedule, his stresses and strains. More than just having another adult to gaze at over dinner, he wanted another adult to talk to—or better yet, to listen to. He wanted to be reminded that an entire world existed beyond Champion Sports and the Children's Garden preschool, the Elm Street after-school program and an occasional night of poker.

“My day?” She set her fork down and regarded him with apparent surprise, her eyebrows arched and her head tilted.

The dark luster of her hair tempted him. If the table had been smaller, he might have given in to the urge to reach across it and touch her hair, to weave his fingers through the lushness of it. Lucky for her the table blocked him—and luckier that he had enough common sense to know touching her was out of the question.

“Your day,” he repeated.

“Well…I swept my back porch.”

He wasn't sure if she was joking. Her mouth was solemn, but her eyes sparkled. “That must have been exciting,” he said dryly.

“It was depressing,” she confessed. “The paint is flaking off. I've got to repaint the porch before I put the house up for sale. But it's nearly winter.”

“It's not too cold,” he told her. “How big is the porch? You might be able to do it over the weekend.”

“How could I possibly hire someone so fast? In New York, you have to book contractors months in advance. I'm sure that's true here, too.”

“Contractors? Can't you just paint the porch yourself?”

She seemed dubious. “I wouldn't begin to know how.”

“It's not brain surgery, Fil. You scrape off the loose old paint, sand the wood down a little, then slap on a fresh coat.”

“You make it sound easy.” She shrugged. “Some of us know how to cook. Others know how to paint porches.”

“And in the long run, cooking is probably a more important skill,” he conceded with a laugh. “You want me to paint your porch for you? I could probably get it done over the weekend if it's not too big.”

“It's small, but no,” she said. “I couldn't ask that of you.”

“You didn't ask. I offered.”

“And I said no, Evan.” She actually seemed kind of stunned. “You work so hard all week—you don't even
have time to pick your daughter up from her preschool. You can't spend your weekend painting my porch.”

“The kids could help,” he said, the idea popping into his head as he spoke it. “Why not? We can turn it into a family activity. And you can keep them occupied while I do the hard parts.”

“Wouldn't you rather do something fun with them? Take them to a movie or something?”

“I'm so sick of G-rated movies,” he groaned melodramatically. “No, I wouldn't rather take them to a movie. If
you
want to take them to a movie while I paint your porch, that would be great.”

“Evan.” Apparently she thought he was joking.

He wasn't. Painting the porch would be an easy job, unless the porch was twenty-by-forty, with rotting boards and an intricate ornamental railing. Sitting through one more full-length cartoon, or one more movie about an underdog sports team with a crabby coach, or one more science-fiction extravaganza with enhanced sound effects, was likely to send him screaming for Thorazine. Filomena obviously didn't know what taking children to the movies was like. “Not only are the movies lousy,” he explained, “but someone invariably spills a soda or drops an open box of candy that costs more than the gross national product of Peru, so all the candies roll away, and the theater is filled with squealing, whimpering kids. And the floor is sticky.”

“From the spilled soda and candy,” Filomena guessed, her smile ripening. “Are the movies really that lousy?”

“I don't know. You like books about talking pigs. You might enjoy movies about dancing candlesticks and Darth Vader's childhood.”

“You sound a little burned-out,” she observed gently.

“A little?” He snorted, then settled back in his chair and mulled over her statement. “Maybe that's why Molly thinks I need the Daddy School.”

“The Daddy School?”

He sighed. He didn't want to whine—but damn, it was so nice talking to her. Even about mundane subjects like back porches and fatherhood.
Especially
about subjects like that. “Molly is the director of Gracie's preschool. You probably met her when you picked Gracie up.”

“She'd already left,” Filomena told him. “I met a woman named Cara.”

“Okay.” He nodded. Gracie had been enrolled in the Children's Garden practically since the day Debbie had split. Evan knew everyone who worked at the place. “Cara probably thinks I need the Daddy School, too.”

“What is the Daddy School?”

“Classes on how to be a father. A
better
father,” he corrected himself, studying Filomena, measuring her reaction. Deep down, he wanted to hear her say she considered the idea of
his
needing such classes preposterous, even though she was in no position to judge how good a father he was.

“When are the classes held?”

He hadn't expected her to focus on the practicalities of his attending the Daddy School. But why shouldn't she? She was his new baby-sitter, his kids' temporary part-time nanny. She probably recognized that his attending these classes would depend on some child-care arrangements. “Monday evenings. If I decide to go, I'll figure something out.”

“Something?” Her eyebrows rose.

“I'll hire a baby-sitter.” He sighed again and brushed
back a lock of hair that was tickling his forehead. The logistics of his taking classes weren't as important as his ability to talk to Filomena about them. Hell, he'd be a better father if he could talk to her every evening over dinner, after the kids were gone from the table. He'd be a better father if he could gaze into her hypnotically pretty eyes and fantasize about running his hands through her hair.

She turned him on. She wasn't just the perfect baby-sitter at a time in his life when he'd been so desperate even a flawed baby-sitter would have been acceptable. She was also beautiful. Womanly. Mysterious, with her alluring eyes and her enigmatic smile, the curves of her body hidden beneath shapeless skirts and baggy sweaters. From the moment he'd first seen her, he'd desired more from her than she was offering, more than he had any right to want.

He probably didn't even have the right to want her companionship during his evening meal. He reminded himself that she was going to be departing from Arlington as soon as the new year arrived. In less than two months, she'd be out of his life and the children's, as well. He couldn't get involved with her. It wouldn't be fair for the kids to think she was anything more than a baby-sitter when she already had her return trip to New York planned.

“…because I wouldn't mind staying with the kids,” she was saying.

He dragged his attention back to her. “Excuse me?”

“I said, if you want to go to these classes, I can stay Monday evenings.”

“I can't ask you to do that.”

“You didn't ask.” Her smile widened as she returned his words to him. “I offered.”

He was getting himself into trouble here. He'd already offered to paint her porch, and now she was offering to watch his kids beyond the time they'd agreed on when he'd hired her. If he felt guilty asking his secretary, Heather, for a personal favor, he felt even more guilty contemplating the possibility of swapping favors with Filomena—because unlike Heather, Filomena attracted him the way a target attracted a heat-seeking missile. All he wanted from Heather was an efficiently run office. What he wanted from Filomena was—

Don't even think it
, he cautioned himself.

She was still smiling at him. Still gazing at him, her expression curious but inviting. Once again he had to suppress the urge to leap over the table and haul her into his arms.

Oh, yeah. He was in big trouble.

“So, what time should I come over on Saturday to paint your porch?” he asked.

 

T
HIS WAS GOING
to be cool, Billy thought—spending the whole day at Filomena's house. Actually going inside, looking around, checking for…well, not ghosts, because he didn't believe in them, but spirits. He was convinced spirits lived in that big old place. Maybe, if he was really quiet and patient, he'd see one.

The only problem was, Gracie was going to be there, too, and she didn't know how to be quiet or patient. If spirits lived in the house, she would scare them away. She was just too loud.

Dad pulled into the circular driveway at the front of Filomena's and stopped the car. The front porch was
stone and it didn't need painting. The windows had wooden shutters on them, but Billy didn't think his father was going to paint them, because he didn't have a ladder with him, and what was the point of painting the first-floor shutters if you weren't going to paint the upstairs shutters? That would be like washing one sock of a pair and not the other—which Billy had done, but never on purpose; just when one sock got lost under his bed or something.

Dad was dressed in layers. He was always telling Billy and Gracie to dress in layers, but he himself never did, except when he was going to be doing outdoor activities, like raking the leaves or snow-blowing the driveway or skiing. Or painting a porch. He had on a long-sleeved thermal shirt, a plaid wool shirt over it, a jacket over that and old jeans that were worn to nearly white on the knees. Billy thought his own cargo pants were much better than jeans, because they had all those extra pockets where you could put things.