Jennifer Greene - Wintergreen

Laughing, Lorna carefully folded herself like an accordion into the narrow Morgan. “I feel as if I’m trying to fit my legs into a bumper car at a carnival!” Matthew’s automobile was a classic, dark green with a long, low front. When Lorna was seated, she could no longer see her toes, and she felt as if she were sitting an inch off the ground, although the rich leather seats were comfortable and the gadgets on the dashboard a study in luxury.

Matthew slammed the door on his side, effectively taking up all the rest of the available space and then some, and scowled at her. “If you insult my car, I guarantee it won’t start.”

Alarmed, Lorna promptly patted the dash. “Good baby, good baby.” If the heat didn’t come on soon, she was going to turn into an icicle. So much for open-weave skirts and bare throats.

Matthew grinned, giving her a sidelong glance as he turned the key in the ignition. When he’d called for her, he’d taken in every inch of her from the top of her head to her toes; she couldn’t imagine why she flushed now. Because he was suddenly so close, she supposed. Because they both appeared to be rather taken aback at how startlingly fast, how violently fast, they seemed to be aware of each other in a completely new way. Because his dark coat and dark eyes and dark hair sent a starkly sexual message directly to her bloodstream. Because his shoulder was brushing hers, and because his hand on the gearshift was only inches from her thigh. Because…

“I hope you don’t mind a little change in plans, Misha.” The engine was purring smoothly now, and the car was cozy as toast.

She glanced at him. He had stopped at a stoplight, and reaching behind him brought forward two white bags, which he handed to her. She opened both, revealing two huge corned beef sandwiches, potato chips, pickles and chocolate éclairs. Except for the pickles, she had no objections, but it was not exactly the kind of dinner she had dressed for.

“And we’ve only got ten minutes to eat.” Seeing the expression she was trying so hard to hide, he chuckled. “It isn’t exactly what I had planned, either. But unless you’ve changed your taste in music, Misha, I think you’ll be pleased. I heard this afternoon that Diana Krall is going to be at the Bluebird for tonight only. So…”

“You’re not serious.”

“If you would rather just go to a nice restaurant, this stuff will keep.”

She forced one of the sandwiches rapidly in his hand, not wasting any more time talking while she munched on her own. He chuckled again at her enthusiasm. She had no idea how he remembered her love of jazz; Richard hadn’t liked it, and she had rarely played her cherished recordings while he was at home. She didn’t care for avant-garde jazz, but she loved the traditional music, beginning with Bessie Smith in the twenties. She especially loved the type of song where the pianist picked up a love story and retold it in his or her own way.

When Matthew stopped the car less than ten minutes later, Lorna opened her door before he could come around to do it for her. Impatiently, she lifted one foot and then the other, waiting while he locked the car on his side and approached hers. A light covering of snow blanketed the sidewalks, and the silvery flakes were still falling. She was shivering.

“Don’t you ever wear boots?” he chided.

“Oh, stop it, Matthew. What time does Krall start?”

“In seven minutes. We’ve still got time for a brisk walk around the block, if you-” He laughed at her horrified expression and draped a warm arm over her shoulder as they started walking. The swift kiss on her forehead startled her. “I was beginning to think you’d lost it, Misha. That little-kid ability to get all excited and just…be. Just laugh because of nothing at all.”

She wasn’t sure what he meant, and for an instant even resented the remark. Her life was a serious matter, not so very easy since the death of her father and the necessity of caring for Johnny by herself; surely Matthew didn’t want or expect her to behave like a child? But that quick prick of resentment faded as she was warmed in the crook of his shoulder, matching his fast-paced walk. He was right in his way. She hadn’t had such a simple feeling of sheer fun and anticipation in a long time.

A few minutes later, they walked down the steps to the basement nightclub that was the Bluebird. Stepping into darkness, Matthew took their coats while Lorna waited for her eyes to adjust. It would be euphemistic to call the place a dive. Old tables were crowded together over a faded linoleum floor; smoke was already filling the air; and the crowd was eclectic. Faded jeans mingled with gold lamé and a few black leather jackets; the single candle on each table illuminated trays of drinks waiting to be served. All chitchat stopped abruptly when the jazz trip started playing. No more drinks were served. The chatter of latecomers stopped at the doorway.

Lorna simply sat back, listened and inhaled. The shabby room faded into something else; the group of mismatched individuals blended into appreciative aficionados under the spell of her music.

She wasn’t aware how intently Matthew was watching her until the waitress served them drinks between the second and third sets. “I can tell you’re having a rotten time,” he murmured.

“Matthew…” She just looked at him, not knowing where to find the words to tell him how much the evening meant to her. She’d been afraid of a candlelit dinner, afraid they would suddenly be groping for conversation, afraid they would seem like strangers, afraid that special rapport she’d felt with him would disappear and that unhappy memories would poison the atmosphere, prevent any real communication between them. Now all that apprehension seemed unreal. How could she possibly feel uncomfortable when she knew Matthew shared her love of music, when the evening had started out with hastily eaten sandwiches and there had been laughter from the start?

“You’re so beautiful, Misha,” he whispered. “When you’re happy, you glow like a candle in a dark world. So easy to make happy, so easy to make sad. You touch your world, Misha-you make an impression on everyone who knows you. Did you know that?”

The place was dark and smoky, and the single candle on their table cast shadows on the planes of his face, adding a flicker of flame to his dark eyes when he looked at her. The music started again, yet this time Lorna felt drawn by a more potent magic than the subtle piano chords. Matthew’s thigh rested against hers while they listened. His arm went around the back of the booth, his fingers absently resting on her shoulders, occasionally fondling her hair. His touch talked to her, whispering of the cocoon he wanted to spin around the two of them. When the trio started a low, haunting love song, there wasn’t a sound in the place, and Lorna could feel the ache of old longings fill her as if she were a well that had been empty and hollow and cold and was now brimming with feelings so strong…

They left after midnight. The Ann Arbor streets were emptied of cars and totally silent. The glistening dark pavement and pure velvet covering of snow on the trees and grass made Lorna forget the frigid air that chilled her bones. She felt exhausted, exhilarated, high on music and recklessly exuberant as she hadn’t been in months.

Matthew was laughing at something she said as he settled his rangy frame next to her in the Morgan. He dropped a swift, soft kiss on her mouth, so naturally that she was still smiling when he drew away to start the car. “Do you have to be home to accommodate a babysitter, or do you have time for a drink first?” he asked easily.

“Johnny’s with Freda for the night, so I don’t have to…” Her lighthearted smile faltered just a little, as reality came back with a little bump. Explaining that Johnny was off her hands for the night might sound like an open invitation, and she didn’t need it spelled out to know Matthew was asking her to his place.

“Good, Misha. I had a feeling you weren’t tired. I always have insomnia after a night of music,” he drawled, looking straight ahead as he drove.

She looked at him. The sight of his strong profile under a street lamp sent a mental shiver down her spine. She swallowed. “I do, too, Matthew, but actually tomorrow I have to…”

“Work? So do I. But I want to talk to you, Misha. You don’t really want to go home yet, do you?”

He had stopped for a red light, and turned to look at her. Stop melting, Lorna told herself sternly. You can’t go into this just because you’re in an insane mood and you’re high on life for these few hours. But the look in Matthew’s dark eyes seemed to touch her physically, to caress the silken strands of her hair, her soft lower lip, to rest on the vulnerable skin of her throat.

“Misha? I just want to talk,” he assured her softly.

She settled back, staring straight ahead. “For one drink then,” she agreed cautiously, but she thought, Talk? Matthew, you never used to be a liar.

“Your old place was so small next to this,” Lorna said quietly, glancing around Matthew’s condominium as he took her coat and she found a place for her purse on the hall table. She descended two thickly carpeted steps into the sunken living room, the decor a stark white and black, the lighting hidden and the chrome gleaming. The interior decorator-obviously a professional had been at work here-had had an eye for luxury and elegance. The rich black carpeting and stark white couches were dramatic and masculine, with scarlet accents in the lacquered Chinese bar and a single high-backed chair.

“You don’t like it,” Matthew said from behind her.

“Of course I do.”

“Misha.”

“It’s perfectly dreadful. Where on earth do you read the Sunday paper?”