'Tis the Season (28 page)

This was her life, he reminded himself. This group of intellectual, eclectic, multifaceted people, sky divers and artists, students and urban warriors, was her social circle. This was who she was.

He spotted Jennifer and Tank Moody entering the room. Tank might not have been the tallest person present, but he projected size, dominance, power. Clad in a fashionable suit and beaming a megawatt smile, he radiated charisma. Jennifer looked slightly overwhelmed, hanging off his arm.

Overwhelmed
had never before been a word he associated with Jennifer.

He wove a path through the throng, sidestepping a table filled with platters of exotic snacks and cinnamon-scented candles, until he reached Jennifer and Tank. Tank immediately gave him a crushing handshake. “Evan! Great seeing you, man! This party seems interesting. Where'd you find that beer?”

“Through that door,” Evan said, pointing in the direction of the kitchen.

“You want something, baby?” he asked Jennifer.

“I'm fine for now,” she murmured, smiling up at him.

Baby?
Evan couldn't believe his tough, determined second-in-command would let any man call her that.

“Look at him,” she whispered, watching in awe as Tank moved through the room, pausing to introduce himself to someone, winking and circling an arm around the shoulders of a pretty young woman. “He's so smooth.”

“He's got you under his spell,” Evan warned her.

“I know. I don't care.” Jennifer smiled bravely at Evan. “The football season is just about over. During the off-season, he lives near his mother in Cincinnati. So…” she concluded with a shrug.

“And you don't care?”

“These few weeks were worth it, Evan. I promise I'll be back to my old self in a week or two, okay? I'll be the bitch you know and love. But this time I've spent with Tank…definitely worth it.”

And his time with Filomena was definitely worth it, too, he assured himself. Every minute he'd spent with her had been a blessing. Every hour she'd cared for his children had been wonderful for them and essential for his peace of mind.

She floated toward him through the crowd, and her approach transformed everyone else in the room into a meaningless blur. He almost forgot to introduce her to Jennifer. “I've heard so much about you,” Filomena said graciously, laying a hand lightly on Evan's arm. “Evan says you keep him sane at work.”

“If Evan said that, he was lying through his teeth,” Jennifer argued with a laugh.

“And Tank—he's absolutely charming.” Filomena glanced his way. He was smiling flirtatiously at the sky diver. Evan remembered how easily he'd melted the hearts of grandmothers at the Champion store in New Haven. Yes, Tank was a charmer. He could probably even charm a sophisticated New Yorker who didn't follow football—like Filomena.

Evan sucked in a deep breath. He didn't like the route his thoughts were traveling. He didn't like worrying that a sports hero could beguile the woman he loved. It had happened before.

When Debbie had left, he'd been too shocked to fight it. When Filomena left, Evan would not be shocked—but in the meantime, he was going to fight for her, to make sure she wasn't charmed blind by Tank Moody and all her colorful, sophisticated friends. Maybe Evan was just a father and a businessman, but damn it, he could be charming, too.

“How about a dance?” he asked Filomena.

She frowned, obviously puzzled. “To ‘Greensleeves'?” she asked, naming the tune emerging from the speakers of her stereo.

“Of course to ‘Greensleeves.'” Actually, dancing wasn't his long suit, but if it would get Filomena into his arms, why not?

He planted his beer on the nearest table, slid his right hand around her waist and folded his left around her fingers. Pulling her close, he nuzzled her long, loose hair. “You are so beautiful tonight,” he whispered.

She drew back and peered up at him, surprised but obviously pleased. “Why, Evan! You romantic fool!”

“That's me,” he agreed. “A romantic fool.” And then he pulled her close again, guiding her head to his shoul
der. The harp plucked the sentimental ballad, and the party guests ignored them, engrossed as they were in their scintillating arguments about whether sushi was preferable to sashimi or whether Tom Stoppard was a more seminal playwright than Harold Pinter. The majority of them probably had their Ph.D.s or, like Filomena, were close to getting them. The majority could probably identify a play by Harold Pinter after hearing one line and could discourse on sashimi in Japanese.

But Evan was the one holding Filomena. He was the one she was dancing with. And as soon as he steered her into the dining-room doorway, under the mistletoe, he was the one she was kissing.

B
Y ONE O
'
CLOCK
, everyone who wasn't staying the night had left and everyone who was had succumbed to fatigue and vanished up the stairs to sack out in the various guest bedrooms Filomena had set up. She roamed around the living room in her stocking feet—her shoes were someplace, but she couldn't remember where—blowing out candles and gathering dirty glasses and wrinkled napkins from the tables.

She carried the glasses to the kitchen, where Evan was filling the sink with hot water and dish detergent. Bubbles foamed in the basin, and lemon-scented steam rose from it.

What a glorious sight he was, tall and lean, his hair disheveled but his posture alert, as if it were the middle of the afternoon and he was brimming with energy. Maybe he was. Maybe the bright slashes of color in his sweater fueled him. Maybe parties stimulated him.

This party had stimulated her. It had been an unqualified success. Everyone had mingled well, the food had been enthusiastically consumed and that football player, Tank Whatever, had added a dash of star quality to the proceedings. Her mother wasn't the only one who could meld a disparate group of people into a mass of collective good cheer. Filomena had inherited the hostess gene. She ought to be delighted.

But it was late, and the house was quiet, and she was fading.

“You don't have to do that,” she said when Evan lifted an empty platter from the counter and swirled it in the soapy water.

He glanced over his shoulder at her. “How many times have you taken care of business in my kitchen? I owe you big. This is the least I could do.”

“I was just going to leave everything for tomorrow.” She placed the glasses carefully on the counter.

“If we do some tonight, there'll be less to do tomorrow.”

“How practical.” She sidled up next to him and rested her head on his shoulder. Actually, she didn't quite rest it, since scrubbing of the platter made his arm move back and forth, giving her head a bumpy ride. “I hope you enjoyed the party,” she said.

“I did.”

“My friends thought you were cool.”

“Cool? Me?” He chuckled. “Yeah, right.” He rinsed the suds off the platter. It was one of her mother's Lenox dishes, a perfect circle of creamy porcelain.

“My mother always used to serve hors d'oeuvres on that plate. Toast points with caviar, or smoked salmon. Or pâté.”

He shook the excess moisture from the dish and reached to put it into the drying rack. She intercepted him, taking the heavy plate in her hands. It was still warm from the water.

“What am I going to do, Evan?” she asked, the last of the party's giddiness seeping from her like air from a balloon, leaving her flat and empty.

He shut off the water and turned to her, his face etched
with concern. He must have heard the pain in her voice, the sorrow. He took the plate from her and put it in the rack, then enveloped her hands in his. Like the plate, they were warm and familiar. “Maybe you're right,” he said. “Let's leave the rest and get some sleep. It's late.”

She shook her head. She was so sad all of a sudden, so weary. “That was my mother's favorite serving dish. She's dead, Evan. She's gone.”

He gave her hands a gentle squeeze. “I know.”

“It's finally sinking in. This party and all my friends—and now I have to sell the house. I'll have to sell all these things—my mother's platters, her dishes, most of the candlesticks. I have no place to store all her stuff and I can't afford to rent storage space. I can't save them.”

“Don't think about it now,” he urged her.

“I've avoided thinking about it for too long,” she confessed. He didn't deserve to have her unload all her grief on him, but she trusted no one else with it. Not even her good friends, all sound asleep in their makeshift beds and sleeping bags upstairs.

Only Evan. He was the only one she could talk to about this.

“I have to sell the house. I have to raise the money to pay off her debts—”

“Fil.”

“She's dead, Evan. I'll never see her again. She'll never serve pâté on that platter again….” Her voice broke. Maybe it was fatigue, maybe the final crash after she'd exhausted her supply of energy, but tears filled her eyes and overflowed, and a deep sob seized her chest, wringing her heart.

Evan wrapped his arms around her and held her while she cried. He was so strong, so solid, absorbing her mis
ery. He was a man, someone she could lean on. Someone who had given her the moon.

She was too heavy for him to lift, but he swept her into his arms, anyway, cradling her against his chest as he carried her through the kitchen. He nudged the light switch with his elbow to extinguish the light on his way through the door, then moved through the living room to the stairs.

“Where are we going?” she asked, her vision blurred with tears and her voice watery.

“Upstairs. You're dead on your feet, Fil. I'm going to put you to bed.”

“Don't let me go,” she pleaded. She'd lost her mother. She was about to lose her childhood home. She couldn't bear to lose Evan, too. Not tonight.

“I won't,” he promised.

He carried her into her bedroom, relying on the faint light seeping in from the hall to find his way to her bed. Once he'd lowered her onto the plush down comforter, he turned on the bedside lamp. Next to it sat the moon he'd given her.

She loved it. She would never part with Evan's gift to her, even if she had to get rid of everything else she owned.

So many decisions loomed ahead of her in the new year. So much change. She didn't want to face it. She wanted the earth to stop spinning so she could stay where she was right now, lying on her bed with Evan seated beside her, gazing down at her, brushing her hair back from her damp cheeks.

“Make love to me,” she pleaded in a ragged whisper. So what if she only wanted to fend off reality for a little longer? It would arrive soon enough. All she wanted was
one more night with him, one more chance to stop the world, to remain in this safe place for a little while longer.

He leaned down to kiss her, kicked off his loafers and swung his legs up onto the bed. Within minutes, their clothing was gone. All that existed was Evan and Filomena and their passion, the demands of their bodies, the need in their souls. He was slow, patient, resisting his own urges until she pulled him on top of her, no longer willing to wait. Every touch made her want him more; every sigh and groan resonated in her heart. When at last he sank into her, she felt transformed, redeemed, as far from her sadness as she could be.

It was all a deception, she knew. Evan's potent body, his sleek motions, his grace and hunger and unabashed lust could distract her only for a while. Once she turned off the lamp and nestled into the circle of his arms, once he drew the blanket over them, kissed her forehead and drifted off to sleep, reality tiptoed back. It hovered close by, waiting for her, reminding her that the magic that had carried her through these past few weeks was about to run out.

The holidays were over; the new year had come. Soon she would be following all her friends back to Manhattan and resuming her life there.

Without her mother. Without her Arlington home.

Without Evan and his wonderful children.

She snuggled closer to him, determined not to think about it for just a tiny bit longer.

 

F
IVE DAYS LATER
she was gone.

It didn't matter how well he'd prepared himself for the inevitable. Kissing Filomena goodbye had been the worst
moment of his life. Worse than the day Debbie had left him. Worse than the time Gracie had spiked a fever and he'd rushed with her to Arlington Memorial Hospital—where her pediatrician, Dr. Cole, had assured him that she had roseola and would be fine. Worse than the day his father had lost his job. Worse than the evening in mid-November when he'd left the poker table to check on his children and discovered them missing.

This was worse, because if Filomena loved him half as much as he loved her, she wouldn't have left.

They'd talked about her departure. She'd told him she had signed a contract with a real-estate broker who had suggested she leave everything in the house for now so it would appear warmer and more appealing to prospective buyers. She'd told him her adviser at Columbia was eager to plan her schedule for the time she had remaining in her doctoral program. She'd told him New York City wasn't much more than ninety minutes away by train, and even less time by car, and they could visit each other once she'd returned to the city.

He didn't want to visit her. He didn't want to be her weekend boyfriend. For the past month she'd been an integral part of his life, his family. She'd spent time with the kids. Eaten dinner with them. Given Gracie her baths. Slept in Evan's bed.

He was thirty-one years old. For God's sake, he didn't want to date a student! He wanted…

He wanted what they'd had during those few precious weeks.

He could have asked her to stay. Maybe he should have. But what would have been the point? She knew what she could have had in Arlington, and she'd walked away from it.

The kids were subdued. Molly Saunders-Russo praised Evan for picking Gracie up on time every day, but she remarked that Gracie seemed a little melancholy lately. “She isn't as bubbly as usual, Evan. Is something going on?”

“A friend of ours moved away,” he explained. Calling Filomena a “friend” was a ridiculous understatement—yet it was apt. She'd been not just a baby-sitter but a genuine friend to his children, someone who listened to them, talked to them, respected them. Someone who read their cards and read their books to them. Someone they'd been able to trust.

She phoned him twice from the city. Both times, she sounded busy, almost frenetic. “I can't believe the size of the class I'll be teaching, Evan! They jacked up the enrollment. I'm going to have my hands full. I'd hoped for only fifteen kids in my section, but it's more like twenty-five. Did I tell you the Budapest String Quartet is going to be playing on campus? Oh, and remember Carlos? You met him at my New Year's party. He works at a gallery, remember? They're having a special exhibit of works by new artists, and my friend Suzanne is going to have a painting of hers exhibited there. You met Suzanne, too, the tall blond woman with the pierced eyebrow…”

This was Filomena, he reminded himself: dynamic, adventurous, preparing to teach undergraduates by day and gallivanting to concerts and gallery shows by night. She had returned to the life she wanted, a life more glamorous and exciting than anything he could offer her.

He'd survive. He swore to himself that he would.

“Do you have a minute?” Jennifer asked him one Monday morning, two weeks after Filomena had left town. She stood in his office doorway, dressed in a severe
brown suit and her favorite shin-kicking shoes, her hair pulled back to display stern pearl earrings and a single pearl on a narrow gold chain around her neck.

Evan waved her inside. “What's up?”

She strode into his office, took the chair across the desk from him and rested a folder of papers in her lap. She looked offensively brisk and bustling. “It's time for us to make our move with Pep Insoles.”

He didn't give a rat's ass about Pep Insoles. But that was a bad attitude for the head of Champion Sports to have, so he decided to pretend he cared about the product. Far more fascinating than Pep Insoles was Jennifer's miraculous transformation back into the hardheaded vice president she'd been before Tank Moody had crossed her path. “How are you doing?” he asked.

“I'm fine.” She tapped her folder with a neatly polished nail. “I think we should give this deal the green light, Evan. Pep Insoles is offering us exclusive rights to distribute their product in the Northeast. This is a great opportunity for Champion.”

“Okay, but how are you
really
doing?” he persisted. He knew Tank Moody had returned to Ohio at the conclusion of the football season. Surely Jennifer must be suffering a little in his absence.

She angled her head to study him. “I'm fine, Evan. How are you?”

“Don't you miss him?”

“Who? Tank?” She sighed. “Well, I'm not going to make myself crazy about it. We both knew going in that it would be one of those things.”

“One of what things?”

“A one-night stand, only slightly longer.” She smiled. “He was wonderful, Evan. I'll never forget him. But we
both knew it wasn't the sort of love that would last forever. It was what it was. Magic as long as it lasted, but it didn't last very long.”

“You thought it was magic, huh?”

“Of course. But that's just it—magic isn't for real. You enjoy it, you let it dazzle you, but you never forget it's just an illusion.” She tapped her file again. “So, where are we with Pep Insoles? Are we ready to go to contract with them?”

“Sure,” he said, because he saw no reason not to. “But I want us to keep close tabs on their labor practices, okay? I don't want to stock anything that's manufactured by underpaid kids.”