'Tis the Season (27 page)

Good Lord, what was she turning into? A suburban hausfrau? A soccer mom? A woman so drunk on love she no longer knew who she was?

The e-mails helped to remind her. One was from Patty, crammed with information concerning the train everyone would be taking out of the city on December 31. If Filomena couldn't pick them up, Patty wrote, they'd share cabs to her house. “I can't wait to see you!” Patty concluded.

Two e-mails were from real-estate brokers Filomena had spoken with over the phone, both pitching their skills and services, mentioning the sale prices of other properties they'd recently represented and asking for the privilege of listing her house. One e-mail was from her thesis adviser at Columbia, saying he hoped she was faring well and getting her mother's estate in order and reminding her that the section of Modern American Literature she would be teaching during spring semester would be meeting Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays at 10 a.m.

The final e-mail was from her mother's lawyer. “I'm aware that the real-estate market is usually rather sluggish at this time of year,” he wrote. “If you can't sell the house quickly, you might consider taking a home-equity loan to settle your mother's debts quickly. The house might be easier to sell in the spring, and you can pay off the home-equity loan at that time.”

In other words, she thought grimly, Leila Albright's creditors were growing impatient. Leila had died more than three months ago, and they were tired of waiting for their money.

She closed her eyes again, wishing she could transport herself back to Evan's house, away from all her obligations, her mother's debts, her mother's death, away from the world lying in wait beyond Arlington's borders. But she couldn't. The messages in her e-mail in-box were her reality. She had to sell this house. She had to teach her section of Modern American Lit.

And Evan had hired her to baby-sit only through the end of the year.

She set aside her laptop, rose to her feet and wandered into the living room. She'd placed the crystal moon on the mantel—a lousy location for it, half-lost amid the pine boughs and holly sprigs she'd arranged there. She removed the moon from its perch and trudged up the stairs to her bedroom. The shower she'd taken when she'd arrived home hadn't roused her. She was feeling the aftereffects of a long, wondrous night that had included pitifully little sleep.

In her bedroom, she set the moon on her night table, next to her neatly made bed. The blue silk scarf on her dresser snagged her attention.

“It doesn't mean anything,” she muttered, even as she scooped up the cloth and its contents—her tarot deck. “But what the hell.”

She shuffled the cards, cut the deck three times and dealt out five cards, from right to left, all the while pondering the question
Is my life back in New York City?

The first card was the Lovers—which didn't necessar
ily have anything to do with lovers, Filomena remembered with a wry smile. The Lovers represented a choice. Between her passion for Evan and her passion for scholarship? Between New York and Arlington? Between using her brain and heeding her heart?

The second card was the Three of Swords, a sad card. It stood for losing her mother, she decided.

The third card was the Knight of Cups. Evan, obviously—a man with light hair and pale eyes, thoughtful and loving. The third card dealt was supposed to represent her present circumstance. She had to laugh at its appropriateness, even though she reminded herself she didn't believe in any of this tarot nonsense.

Next, the Seven of Pentacles—hard work and ingenuity. “My thesis,” she reasoned. “My doctorate.”

The final card was Death. “Swell,” she grunted, even though she knew the Death card didn't really represent death, any more than the Lovers card represented lovers. The Death card symbolized transformation.

All the cards faced right side up, none reversed, which meant the answer to her question was yes. Her life was back in New York City.

If
she believed in the tarot.

Which she didn't.

Yet she'd done the reading, hadn't she? And if she didn't believe in it, if she didn't believe in magic, if she didn't believe there were forces that sometimes contrived to turn a person's fate inside out, then how could she explain what had happened to her in the past few weeks? What had brought Evan's children through the woods into her life and brought her into theirs, into his? Why had her mother died while climbing Mont Blanc? Why
had she left Filomena a crushing debt, but also this house—which she herself could have sold to pay off her debts?

Wasn't it possible that everything had happened in some sort of miraculous conspiracy to bring Filomena to Arlington so she could meet a man who just happened to be in desperate need of a baby-sitter at the exact moment she was in desperate need of something to do? Wasn't it possible that magic had something to do with it?

“What a crock,” she snorted, rewrapping the cards inside the cloth and tossing the deck onto her dresser. Spinning away, she saw the moon Evan had given her, silver-white as it caught a shaft of sunlight.

How could he have known to give her the most beautiful moon in the world? How could he have made such magnificent love to her?

How could she ever explain the past few weeks of her life if she didn't believe in magic?

“My life is in New York City,” she whispered, then let out a long, dreary sigh. She had never imagined herself the sort of woman who made love with a man all night and grilled French toast for his children in the morning. She was half her mother—an adventurer—and half her father—a scholar. She didn't belong in Evan's domestic world. She knew that.

And yet…

And yet. If the real sun could light up a lustrous moon encased in crystal, anything was possible.

 

T
HE DOORBELL RANG
and Evan told himself, for the umpteenth time, to calm down. He was going to a party. Having fun was the main idea.

Sighing, he swung open the door to find Murphy and his wife, Gail, standing on the stoop. “All set?” Murphy asked. The collar of his coat was turned up against the winter night, and Gail was bundled in wool, her face half-hidden by a scarf. They'd asked if they could follow him to Filomena's house so they'd all arrive together.

It occurred to Evan that the Murphys were attired more formally than he was. He couldn't see Gail's dress, but he could see her ankles and feet. She had on stockings and elegant high-heeled shoes. Below the hem of Murphy's coat, Evan saw tailored trouser legs. He himself had chosen dark slacks, a pale-blue shirt and a crewneck sweater featuring an abstract pattern of bright colors. He'd worn it to work once last year, and Heather had told him it looked fabulous on him, but it was weird enough that he couldn't bring himself to wear it on a regular basis.

If Murphy was wearing a suit, so be it. Filomena hadn't specified the fanciness level of the party, which probably meant that everything from tuxedos to blue jeans was acceptable. Evan wasn't going to let himself get tied in knots over his outfit or anything else about the party. For all he knew, this might be his and Filomena's grand farewell. He'd damned well better enjoy himself.

“Let me grab my coat,” he said, swinging open the closet door and pulling his bomber jacket from its hanger.

“Where are the kids? Did you get a sitter?” Murphy asked.

Evan shook his head. “I farmed them out.” Billy was spending the night at his friend Scott's house, and Evan had managed to make an overnight plan for Gracie at the home of a classmate from her preschool. If he wanted—and if Filomena wanted—he could spend the night with
her, as long as he woke up early enough to collect his kids before they drove their hosts insane.

“Smart move. You wouldn't believe what we're paying some fourteen-year-old twit to stay with Erin and Sean tonight.”

“She's not a twit,” Gail said, the words slightly garbled by her scarf.

“You're right. She's a shark. Five bucks an hour—and it's not like she gave up a hot date to sit for us. She's a high-school freshman. She'll probably be able to pay her entire college tuition if she invests tonight's earnings wisely.”

“She's an enterprising young lady,” Gail defended the sitter.

Evan zipped his jacket. “Well, given what you're paying her, we ought to get on over to Fil's and start partying.” He pulled his keys from the pocket of his slacks, then said, “I'll meet you around by the garage, okay?”

He wanted tonight to go well. He wanted Filomena's party to be a success, and afterward, when her guests had settled down to sleep, he wanted to take her to bed and spend all night with her. Barring disaster, that was how things would go. When they woke up, it would be a new year. He could worry about losing her then.

He backed out of the garage and drove down the street, monitoring Murphy's headlights in his rearview mirror. This week had gone well, he reminded himself. Every night Filomena had been in his bed. Every night he'd learned a little more about her—that the inside of her elbow was an erogenous zone. That she'd once hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon with her parents, slept in a lean-to beside the Colorado River and climbed back up the next day. That her father took up scuba diving at
the age of seventy. That she loved books about animals that acted like humans because she wanted to believe in magic, even though she didn't
really
believe in it. That she liked to cuddle with him after making love, breathing into the hollow of his neck, clinging to him, weaving her legs through his. That when she climaxed, she sometimes whispered his name—and when she did, it was all he could do not to tell her he loved her.

He loved her. He knew it and accepted it, and reminded himself that once she left he would be all right. He'd survived worse.

But he wasn't going to think about that tonight.

Only a couple of cars were parked in the circular drive in front of her door. But the windows were bright, and when he climbed out of his car, he heard the muffled din of voices and music emerging from the house. He remembered that most of her guests had taken the train up from Manhattan and so wouldn't have crammed her driveway with cars. He also remembered that all those guests would be sleeping at her house. It would not be the quiet, romantic night he would have wished for.

He met up with the Murphys on the front steps and rang the bell, wondering if Filomena would even hear it through the chatter and music.

She heard. She opened the door, and he felt all his emotions rise like the head on a glass of beer, bubbling, frothy, light yet dense. She wore a long, slim-fitting black skirt and a black tunic with gold threads running through it. Gold earrings dangled from her ears, a gold chain linking crystal beads circled her throat and gold bangles adorned her wrists. She shimmered.

The hell with the party. He wanted to race to her bedroom with her now and kiss the insides of her elbows
until she was gasping and moaning and whispering his name.

“Hi, come in!” she said before Evan could introduce her to Murphy and Gail. As soon as he did, she said to Murphy, “I remember you from the poker game,” then smiled warmly at Gail and took her coat. “Drinks are in the kitchen and food is everywhere else,” she informed them, gesturing toward the living room with a sweep of her arm. “I'll go put these coats upstairs. Make yourselves at home.”

Evan wanted to make himself at home, but he couldn't. Even though he knew his way around her house well enough to lead the way to the kitchen, he couldn't feel at home. Not when her house was filled with so many strangers.

Strangers to him. Not to her. These were her friends, from the other world she lived in.

She rejoined him in the kitchen, where he was pouring Gail a glass of wine. Looping her arm easily around his waist, she said, “Get yourself a drink, and then you can meet everyone.”

He helped himself to a bottle of beer and let her tuck her hand through the bend in his elbow. He appreciated that she was publicly linking herself to him, but he still felt a bit daunted as she meandered through the living room with him, presenting him to a brilliant poet, an aspiring actor, a skinny, goateed gentleman with dreadlocks who owned a gallery, a plump, rosy-cheeked woman whose hobby was skydiving. Everyone seemed bright and glittery and fascinating.

And who was he? A daddy. An Arlington father of two who worked damned hard so he could make a good life for his kids.

What could he talk to these people about? Billy's prospects as a basketball player in the county league? Gracie's puppet show at preschool? Behind him, two people were discussing a Bertolucci retrospective at some art theater in Greenwich Village. The last four movies he'd seen had all been G-rated, filled with cutesy songs and gross-out humor.

Filomena left his side to answer the door, and the crowd swallowed her up. He leaned against the wall near the doorway to the dining room, sipping his beer and surveying his surroundings. Decorative candles burned on tables and windowsills—he hoped none got knocked over—and through the speakers of a portable stereo spilled the sweet sounds of Christmas music performed on a harp.