'Tis the Season (8 page)

“So what brought you back to Arlington? Were you homesick?”

She shook her head. Her hair glided around her face, smooth and glossy. “I inherited the house. I've got to spruce it up and sell it.”

“Oh.” Someone must have died, then. “My condolences.”

“Thank you.” Her eyes shimmered and her smile looked brave and shaky. Once again he felt undermined by her. If she was going to collapse in a fit of grief-
stricken weeping, what would he do? Hug her? Comfort her? Pass her one of the fast-food napkins he kept stored in the console between the seats, handy for mopping up the kids' messes?

Fortunately, she didn't fall apart. She blinked a few times and her smile grew less forced. “I figured I'd stay here in Arlington through New Year's Day, enjoy the house and get it into shape, then put it on the market in January.”

She was going to be in town until January? His brain abruptly shifted gears. She would be in town until the holiday retail season was over and his schedule calmed down. She would be just a short walk through the woods from his house during the next few weeks, when his life was going to be chaotic, when his daughter's preschool teacher believed he would need help in the form of a baby-sitter so he wouldn't keep picking Gracie up late. Filomena thought his children were adorable, and Gracie had trusted her enough to rest her head on her shoulder, and—

What the hell was he thinking? He didn't even know this woman!

But he was thinking it anyway. Because she scrambled his thoughts. Because she wore the moon around her neck. Because he'd believed his children were gone—the absolute worst nightmare a father could experience—and she'd rescued him from that nightmare by bringing his children back to him.

“We need to talk,” he said.

Her smile grew inquisitive and her eyes glowed like onyx, a hint of gold in their depths.

“I'm probably crazy, but—” He clamped his mouth shut to stop thinking aloud. He couldn't discuss his
thoughts with her until he knew what those thoughts actually were, and until he was convinced that they weren't the ravings of a lunatic.

“You're probably crazy, but…?” she prompted him.

He smiled and studied the dashboard, hoping his mind would clarify itself if he wasn't distracted by her beauty. “Maybe we'd better talk tomorrow. May I phone you?” he asked.

“You can't leave me hanging like that,” she protested. “Why are you probably crazy?”

He turned back to her. God, she had a glorious smile. He couldn't look at it without smiling himself. “I'm probably crazy because my kids made me that way,” he joked. “But I was just thinking…” There was no
probably
about it. He was
definitely
crazy.

“Yes?” It was a murmur of encouragement.

“I'm having child-care problems.”

“Evan, just because your kids snuck out of the house doesn't mean you're a bad father,” she reassured him, reaching across the console and patting his hand. Her touch surprised him. He hadn't been expecting it, and although he knew she'd meant to comfort him, he didn't feel the least bit comforted. Her fingers were warm and slender. Had she really been strong enough to haul thirty-eight pounds of living, breathing Gracie all the way home? “Didn't you ever do anything naughty when you were a kid?”

“I did much naughtier things than what Billy and Gracie did,” he conceded, doing his best to ignore the lingering sensation of her hand on his. “If my kids do half the stuff I did as a kid, I'll kill them. But I was thinking about child care as in day care. I've got them both in programs, but it's a hectic time of year for my business.
Gracie's preschool teacher thinks I'm falling down on the job.”

“Are you?”

He met her probing gaze. Although still smiling, she seemed almost solemn, as if his paternal insecurities actually meant something to her. “I don't know. Sometimes I pick up Gracie late from preschool. I just can't get there on time.” He drew in a breath. “This can't possibly interest you.”

“It does. Gracie is a such a little cutie.”

“She's a demon.”

“A cute one.” Filomena smiled gently. “She said her mother was gone…?”

Evan frowned. How had Gracie happened to have mentioned that? “I'm divorced. I have custody. I'm not sure where my ex-wife is living right now, but she's not a part of their life.”

“Ah.” Filomena continued to study him, her expression enigmatic. “So you can't pick Gracie up from preschool on time.”

“I've been making arrangements, kind of ad hoc, but…” He sighed. “The preschool director is right. I'm screwing up. My kids are climbing out windows and pestering total strangers.”

“I could pick Gracie up from her school, if that's what you're asking.”

His eyes met hers. Why did he want to trust her? He hoped it wasn't simply because she could make his life a little easier over the next few weeks. She
could
make it easier—but he suspected she could make it a lot more complicated, too. “Okay,” he said with a grudging smile. “I guess that was what I was asking.”

“I don't think it would be a problem. What about Billy?”

“Look.” Logic fought its way to the forefront of his brain. “I hardly even know you, and—”

“And you're not going to get to know me sitting in your car in my driveway while your poker pals are waiting for you back at your house. Maybe we should discuss this some other time.”

“Good idea.” He did a quick calculation, then nodded. “Why don't you come over for dinner tomorrow, and we can see how everyone gets along. And if we think it's viable, we can work something out. I'd want to pay you for your time, of course.”

“Dinner sounds like a good idea,” she agreed, ignoring his remark about paying her. “What time should I come?”

“How about six-thirty? I think we can get organized by then. I'll broil something.”

“Broiled something sounds delicious,” she said, her grin shaping dimples in her cheeks. “I'll see you tomorrow, Evan.”

“Great.”

She pushed open her door and swung her booted feet out. Her skirt swirled around her as she stood, and he felt a blast of cold that he knew came from the open door, although he couldn't shake the suspicion that her departure had caused it. When she'd been sitting beside him in the car, she'd emitted a warmth—or maybe it was that her nearness made him warm, because she was beautiful and womanly and…

Damn. He needed a baby-sitter for his kids, not a girlfriend, not a lover, not a babe to star in his fantasies. Not a sophisticated New Yorker who dressed like a Gypsy
and sat alone in a big house, drinking wine and listening to harpsichord music.

Not a woman named Filomena Albright, who seemed perfectly able to leave him spellbound.

F
ILOMENA FINALLY SETTLED
on black denim jeans and a textured white tunic. She'd taken an absurdly long time choosing her outfit because she hadn't been sure exactly what she was dressing for. A dinner party? A family meal? A job interview?

A couple of hours in the company of Evan Myers?

Sighing, she ran a brush through her hair. The mirror above the dresser in her old bedroom had a warp in it, making the outline of her bosom wiggle when she moved. Not that it mattered. Her hair was also wiggly, mysterious waves overtaking it in all the wrong places. None of the three different pairs of earrings she'd tried on looked right to her, although she'd resigned herself to the third pair, which featured colorful clusters of beads. Twin lines rose from the bridge of her nose, punctuating her frown.

She was anxious and edgy, which bothered her because she had no reason to be. Evan was offering her a wonderful opportunity—a chance to get out of the house for an hour or two every day, to keep an eye on his children until he got home—and she ought to be pleased about it. If she didn't have something to occupy her time besides cleaning the house, inventorying its contents and shuffling through her research notes, she'd go crazy. Playing
with Evan's kids, who seemed charming if somewhat spunky, would be a perfect distraction.

And she'd even earn a few dollars, which she could certainly use.

In the mirror, she noticed the lines in her forehead deepening. She didn't want to think about receiving money from Evan, and that was a bad sign. He'd invited her for dinner to discuss a job. The evening would revolve around nothing more than that job. He didn't care if her outfit was attractive or her earrings brightened her complexion, as long as she was willing to pick up Gracie at her preschool and keep an eye on her and Billy until Daddy got home from work.

A job, she reminded herself as she descended the stairs, digging through her purse for her keys. Tonight was about nothing more than a chance to assess whether she and the Myers children were compatible.

Yet when she thought about the way Evan had looked at her, his deep-set silver-gray eyes glinting with fear for his children and fascination with her, the air in his car simmering with an inexplicable warmth when they'd been seated side by side last night, driving through the dark streets of Arlington…Could there possibly be something more going on than just a father's attempt to arrange child care for his two children?

If there was, Filomena would be wise to avoid it. She was going to remain in Arlington only long enough to get the house into marketable shape. Her life was in New York City, in Columbia University's library collections and seminar rooms. After she finished her doctorate, she would try to find a faculty position somewhere, and spend her summers traveling, hiking and exploring the world the way her father had. He'd been a professor of classics
when he'd met Filomena's mother on the worn marble steps leading to the Parthenon one Athens summer. By the time Filomena was four, her father had retired from his university position, but she'd always thought his career had been ideal—teaching nine months of the year and replenishing his intellect and imagination the other three months. That was the life she wanted for herself.

The temporary job Evan was offering wouldn't pay for any trips to the Parthenon, but Filomena had been a self-supporting graduate student long enough to know what it meant to scrimp and budget. She ought to be grateful he'd mentioned paying her at all. Accepting compensation from him would define their relationship as strictly employer-employee.

“Employer,” she whispered, hovering near the cellar door. “Employee. That's what this is about.”

But speaking it aloud didn't stop her from detouring downstairs to get a bottle of her father's well-aged Bordeaux. Even in employer-employee situations, when a person invited another person to dinner the guest was supposed to bring the host a gift of wine, right?

She arrived at Evan's house only a few minutes late, and muttering only a few vague imprecations at the Buick sedan for which she'd signed a three-month lease. It was a big, staid car, the kind her aunt and uncle in Sun City, Arizona, would drive. But it got her where she was going. The lease terms had been reasonable, and if western Connecticut saw snow during the weeks she was in Arlington, the weight and traction of the car would keep her on the road.

Lights illuminated the driveway and the front door of the Myers house. It was as interesting architecturally as hers, a sprawl of rooms that had probably been consid
ered shockingly modern in the sixties. The roof was angular, the windows broad, the walls constructed of cedar and fieldstone. The house was lanky and loose-limbed. Like Evan.

She shouldn't be thinking about his loose-limbed lankiness. She shouldn't be thinking about his long straight sandy hair, his sharp jaw, his enigmatic smile or his seductive eyes, glittering gray ringed with black. If all went well tonight, he would hire her. That, not his athletic physique and his sharply etched features, was what she needed to focus on.

She parked in the driveway and hesitated before reaching for the wine bottle, then decided that since she'd brought it with her, she might as well give it to him and hope he viewed the gift as nothing more than a courteous gesture. Strolling up the walk to the front door, she lectured herself to remember the purpose of the evening—and the purpose of her stay in Arlington. On the small front porch, she took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the crisp, tart scent of late-autumn air, and rang the bell.

The door swung open, and her entire pep talk evaporated from her mind as she took in the sight of him. Evan Myers was a phenomenally attractive man.

At the moment he seemed a bit frazzled. His hair was as disheveled as it had been last night, silky strands straying across the side part, and his dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar and rolled up at the sleeves, was wrinkled. Like last night, his jaw was shaded by a day's growth of beard, which gave him a rugged look at odds with his cozy suburban surroundings. He was wiping his hands on a dish towel and grinning.

“Come on in,” he welcomed her.

She stepped into the entry, willing her pulse rate to
subside. She knew she'd make a fine part-time baby-sitter for his children, so she shouldn't be nervous about the job-interview aspect of her visit. She also knew that nothing other than the job-interview aspect would occur tonight, so she had no reason to be nervous on any other account, either.

She handed him the wine. “I hope this goes with whatever you're serving,” she said, sounding much calmer than she felt. “Broiled something, wasn't it?”

He accepted the bottle with a surprised smile. “Thanks. I—”

“Is she here?” a shrill voice resounded from another room. “Is Fil here, Daddy?”

Before he could answer, Filomena heard the patter of footsteps. In less than three seconds, Gracie appeared at the end of the entry hall, Billy right behind her. Gracie charged straight past her father to plant herself in front of Filomena, but Billy held back, as if he didn't want her to think he was too eager to see her.

Filomena appreciated the arrival of the children, two living, breathing reminders of what this dinner was all about. “Hi, Gracie,” she said, hunkering down so she was eye level with the girl. Gracie wore a cute outfit—stretch leggings and a shirt in a matching pattern of white stars on a dark-green background—and her hair was pinned back from her face with the pink butterfly barrette Filomena had found on the ground near her window last Sunday. Gracie probably hadn't chosen it deliberately, but Filomena was delighted that she was wearing it.

Billy remained lurking at the end of the hallway, watching her through solemn gray eyes so like his father's. In fact, Billy looked exactly as Evan must have looked a quarter of a century ago, before the bones of
his face had taken a manly shape. Billy had the same blond-brown hair, the same stubborn chin, the same expression—slightly wary but definitely interested.

“We made a puppet show in school today,” Gracie said, taking over the hostess chores. “We made the puppets out of socks and today we made a puppet show. My puppet was the best.” She grabbed Filomena's hand and led her into the kitchen. “We're gonna eat now. We were waiting for you.”

“I'm sorry—I'm a little late,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at Evan.

He smiled and shook his head to let her know she had nothing to apologize for. “Tell Filomena some more about the puppet show,” he said. “I've still got a few things to get together.”

The kitchen seemed larger without Evan's poker friends filling it. The Tiffany-style lamp over the kitchen table gave the dining area a warm, cozy feel, while the bright spotlights in the cooking area created an aura of efficiency in that part of the room.

Gracie reflected efficiency more than cozy warmth. “You're gonna sit here,” she said, yanking out a chair and dragging Filomena over to it. “Next to me.”

“Let her take her coat off first,” Evan suggested with a laugh as he rinsed a tomato at the sink. “Billy, can you get her coat?”

Billy hurried around the table, displacing Gracie with a little more enthusiasm than necessary. “I'll hang up your coat,” he said, as if the idea had originated with him.

“Thank you, Billy,” Filomena said, removing the heavy suede jacket and handing it to him. When he left the room, she noticed Gracie pouting on the far side of
the table, evidently unhappy that Billy had gotten to be Filomena's hero. She smiled and beckoned the little girl over. “Now, tell me some more about your puppet show,” she said.

Gracie's pout vanished, replaced by a bright grin. “It was great. There were 'splosions and everything in it. There was this monster, and the puppets had to kill him, and…”

She narrated a grisly scenario, overflowing with mayhem—lots of “'splosions” and other preschool-level gore—that concluded with the triumph of all the puppets over the evil monster. By the time Gracie was done, Evan had arranged dinner on the table: a platter of sliced beef, a bowl of baked potatoes, one of green beans and a plate of tomato wedges. Colorful plastic cups filled with milk stood at the children's places, and stemware goblets stood at Filomena's place and Evan's, which was directly across the table from her. With a festive pop, he opened the wine she'd brought and poured some into the glasses.

“Wine, Daddy? You're gonna drink wine?” Billy asked incredulously.

“Why shouldn't I drink wine?” he countered. “I like wine.”

“You never drink it. You always drink beer.”

“I don't
always
drink beer,” he argued, shooting Filomena a quick grin. “I like wine. I just don't like drinking it by myself. You two are way too young to drink it with me. That's why I don't drink it very often.” He set the bottle on the table and lowered himself into his chair. “Tonight, I have someone to drink the wine with, and I intend to enjoy it. In fact—” he raised his glass “—I think we should drink a toast.”

The children both hoisted their milk cups high. “A
toast! A toast!” they bellowed, leading Filomena to assume they'd seen toasts on TV shows or in a movie.

“You have to lift your glass,” Gracie told Filomena.

Smiling, she obeyed Gracie's instructions and turned to Evan. He gazed straight into her eyes, sending her a message that she couldn't decipher. All she knew was that it was personal, just between her and him, and even if his children were the reason he'd asked her to dinner, this one moment, this one look, had nothing to do with them. She held her breath, wondering what he was going to toast to.

“Here,” he said, “is to the two finest kids in the world.”

“That's us!” Gracie added, as if there might be some question which kids he meant.

Smiling at how wrong she'd been about that one moment and that one look, Filomena touched her wineglass to Evan's and sipped. He tasted the wine and his eyebrows arched. “Wow. This is the good stuff.”

She chuckled. “I'm afraid so.”

“Don't be afraid. I'm supposed to say something, right? Like, ‘It's complex but round, with a finish of…' what?”

“Booze,” Billy suggested.

“Okay. A finish of booze.”

“That about describes it,” Filomena said, laughing.

Evan passed her the platter of meat. Once she'd taken some, he forked a portion onto each of his children's plates. He also helped them with the beans and the potatoes, cutting Gracie's potato open for her, adding a pat of butter and mashing it into the soft white center. He cut her meat into small pieces for her, too, before taking any food for himself.

Filomena watched him, wondering at his patience. Admittedly, she had little evidence to go on, but he seemed like a good father, one who took the time to prepare a nutritious meal for his children after a full day of work, one who assisted them and drank toasts to them and laughed when they teased him. They seemed like healthy, happy kids.

So why was their mother out of the picture? What kind of woman would have abandoned not just her children but Evan? The world was not exactly overrun with kind, devoted, strikingly handsome men. What terrible thing could he have done? How could he have chosen as his wife and the mother of his children the sort of woman who would walk away from all this?