The Widow’s First Kiss Page 3

  His smile widens again. “See?”

  “I need help Mommy!” Cindy announces, and I turn at once to help her hold the big mug and avoid getting cream all over her face. She laughs as she gets a little gob on her nose. I hear James chuckling warmly beside us.

  I turn back to him and see him looking at us with something I would never have expected. Not pity or amusement, not mockery or barely hidden disdain, but rather … wistfulness. His eyes are sad, with the warm, longing look of a dog staring after his family’s car.

  “What is it?” I ask him gently, suddenly too arrested by his unspoken sadness to care much whether I make a bad impression.

  “I’m sorry, I just … your family may be small, but there’s real warmth there. That’s rarer than it should be.” He tilts his head slightly. “So, what do you do for work?”

  I squash a moment of defensive nervousness and answer the question directly. “A bit of everything. I’ve got a client who I’m a personal attendant for, another one I shop for. I take in packages for a dozen people around town and walk several people’s dogs. I house sit in the off-season. Things like that.”

  I wish I could describe my scramble to get enough work in half a dozen fields as something more glamorous, or at least difficult. But the real problem is cramming in enough hours of such work to make ends meet. Rich people don’t stay rich by being generous with the help.

  His eyebrows rise. “Oh. Well, you know, if you have a card or something, my mother’s been looking for a companion. She’s in good health, but she doesn’t drive, and she spends too much time up on that mountain eating out of cans.”

  My heart jumps. I don’t care that it’s not the kind of relationship I wish I could have with the man. It’s the possibility of a solid job with a client whose refreshingly non-classist son seems to like me. “I—of course. Just give me a moment.”

  I’m fishing for a card in the bottom of my bag, wishing I had slipped more into my wallet, when Cindy drops her spoon. “Need more help, Mommy!”

  “Just a minute, hun,” I say distractedly as I dig. Of all the times I’ve carried these cards around and not needed one, now I need one and can’t find it.

  “Here, let me help.” James quickly moves to offer his own spoon, and Cindy takes it and happily keeps eating the cream off the top of her cocoa.

  “Thank you,” I say as I finally find one of my simple business cards and hand it over to him. He accepts it, and I settle back to take a swallow of my own drink.

  I try to savor it. It’s not just a drink—it’s a dessert. This and the turnovers are probably the only real treats I’ll get this holiday. Soon, though, if this client comes through, I’ll be able to afford treats now and again once more.

  “So what kind of help would your mother need?” It’s an easy topic to jump into.

  “Besides driving into town and occasionally going to doctor’s appointments, she spends late winter in Florida and will need a sitter for her house and cats. It’s not difficult work; she already has a maid. And she loves kids, so you could probably bring the little princess along.” He winks at Cindy, who looks back at him solemnly.

  I fight down a laugh at my daughter’s deepening frown. “Uh oh. Now you’ve done it.”

  Cindy folds her arms. “I’m not a princess. I’m a vampire.”

  “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, my mistake.” James puts a hand on his broad chest and I’m all blushes and stifled giggles again, watching. He gives her a confused look. “But if that’s so, how can you drink cocoa?”

  “Cocoa’s yummy. Dracula doesn’t drink wine cause he wanted cocoa.” She carefully lifts the mug in both hands and takes a wobbly swallow, only spilling a little. I swoop in with a napkin before the droplets can run down her chin.

  James is very good with her, I think. At least, from what I’ve seen so far. He also seems very attentive to my moods and needs, which is rare, especially in a stranger.

  Is he putting on an act to impress me for some reason? Or is he sincere, and just better at showing it than many?

  I realize that not even Manny was this attentive. Manny, who left a hole in my heart the exact shape of his memory, was a soldier, not a gentleman. Quiet, stoic, who prayed more often than he drank, was shy in bed and yet loving, and spent every minute of his life with me that his military commission allowed.

  I loved him. I miss him. But he never had a tenth of the charm of the man across the table from me.

  It’s been two years and change since I’ve let a man touch me—since I’ve even wanted a man to touch me. It’s only ever been Manny. Movie-star crushes are just a way of letting off steam.

  Until they’re in front of you, flesh and blood, friendly and charming as hell, and the possibility of actually going to bed with them becomes a faint blip on the horizon.

  Why else would he be so friendly? Is he just horny, or lonely for someone who won’t treat him like this Andrea woman seems to? The idea of his being lonely is a slippery slope by itself. It makes my heart open a crack—and with that comes a surge of guilt, because the man I’m feeling that bit of tenderness toward is not my husband.

  To this day, I’ll never know what secret assignment Manny was on that left him and half his squad dead, with mourning families trapped in the same red-tape nightmare as I. Four of us wives have no bodies to bury, no explanations of what happened. Nothing to show for our loved ones but the government sending empty letters with official words instead of any consideration, financial or otherwise.

  How can these men’s service not be acknowledged just because the specifics of their mission have to be kept secret? No one has ever had an answer for us. We’ve been struggling with the help of volunteer attorneys for over eighteen months to get them. But the Veterans Administration has not budged.

  The other widows and I still keep in touch. We have an email chain that we share legal information and news on, and chat together. Awkward pen pals scattered across the state, reaching out to each other now and again when the pressure gets to be too much and no one else can understand. It is like having four sisters—sisters in blood.

  “I think I could do all of that for her easily. How many hours a day would she need me?” I am praying that his mother will need me a lot. Almost everything else I do can be shuffled around or done on the way to completing other errands. But a solid job where I can bring my daughter? Where do I sign up?

  “I’ll talk to my mother and call you with details,” he says brightly as he enters my number into his cellphone. “It won’t be more than a day or two.”

  “Thank you,” I murmur, still shocked at the sudden opportunity.

  “Oh, don’t thank me. I haven’t actually had an uninterrupted chat with someone so pleasant since I got here.” He winks. “So perhaps I have a few ulterior motives in recommending you.”

  “O-oh,” I murmur, blinking, my heart pounding again. Cindy takes one look at my blushing face and starts giggling.

  Chapter 4

  James

  It amazes me how much better I feel after just that short interaction with lovely, good-hearted Lorena and her daughter. I very rarely feel a spark this strong with anyone, and with a tiny bit of a star-struck crush shining in her eyes, Lorena’s almost irresistible. In other circumstances, I would have canceled everything and suggested that she and I spend a few days exploring this attraction.

  I will have to be patient, though. Single mom, desperate circumstances, and me with an unwanted ex hanging around—it’s not a great situation to be in to try to get acquainted. And Lorena appears to be the shy type—which is charming, but also means it’s best to go slowly with her.

  I hope Mom likes the idea of hiring her. I want to help Lorena without hurting her pride. I caught sight of those too-thin jackets and inadequate boots. They were using a military blanket as a shawl to share. I could fix many of those problems just with the contents of my wallet, but I want to be able to do it in a way that’s lasting, in a way that will help her help herself. Gentle-hearted
single moms still have their pride.

  Besides, it will be an excuse to have her around. And from the lightness I feel even as I walk up the front steps of Mom’s towering blue Victorian, having her around will be a very good thing for me as well as her. I’m humming to myself as I unlock the garland-draped front door and step inside.

  “Oh, what did you get?” My mother greets me at the door, all smiles, and I have to gently keep her from poking into my shopping bags. She’s a tiny, chubby woman, whose face has that sweet Italian apple-doll look to it, her eyes magnified by big round glasses. “Come on, let me take a peek!”

  “No, no, come on now, I got some last-minute stocking stuffers for all of you and I don’t want to ruin the surprise.” I give her a kiss on the top of the head as I bundle past into the hallway.

  “Oh, all right. I just wanted to see what you got Mitch!” She trails after me as I make my way to the first-floor bedroom I’m staying in for the week.

  “All right, all right, let’s go in my room and I’ll show you.” I need to get there anyway. The warm air stings my chilled skin comfortingly, but I know I’ll need to change out of my sweater in a few minutes. Andrea’s diva insistence on hothouse temperatures will cook me alive otherwise.

  I step up to the door and push it open—and see Andrea waiting for me on my bed.

  In gold lingerie, the mini-dress draped over my bedside chair, the gleaming silk teddy clinging to her robust curves. My idiot body reacts instinctively to the display. Right in front of my mother.

  There’s a long, awkward pause as we stare at each other. Her seductive smile melts as I watch, as if it’s suddenly dawning on her that it’s the middle of the afternoon in a busy household and I might not be coming in alone. My poor mom, meanwhile, gapes next to me like she’s just walked in on the two of us fucking.

  “I think you’re in the wrong room,” I say conversationally.

  Andrea blinks at me, and then sputters, “What the hell are you doing?” as if it isn’t somehow obvious.

  “Well, I’m coming in with my mom to wrap the gifts I just bought. What the hell are you doing?” God, this scheming idiot. Not only does she ignore my comfort level and try to use me, but she does the exact same thing to my poor mother. I have to put a stop to this.

  “Oh, dear. I …. um …” Mom flaps her hands slightly and I turn to her at once, ushering her out of the room.

  “It’s all right. She’s clearly drunk, so we’ll just leave her alone to pull herself together. We’ll use the breakfast nook,” I insist softly, and she nods, blushing to the roots of her white hair.

  I shoot Andrea a glare over my shoulder. “Get out of my room. I’m keeping this door locked from now on.”

  Andrea’s jaw drops and then she glares. She starts saying something snippy, but I ignore her and get Mom down the stairs, into the kitchen, and over to a seat in the big, octagonal breakfast nook.

  “She’s just trying to repair your relationship,” my mother says weakly. But it’s clear that this time, Andrea has made her uncomfortable too. Were I nastier, I would probably say something about how she brought this on herself. As it is, I’m hoping this is the shock Mom needs to stop trusting my meddling ex.

  “Mom,” I say quietly as I set the bags on the table and sit down across from her, “I know that you like Andrea and that you consider her a friend. But she’s also not the person that you think she is. I’m sorry.” I reach over and squeeze her chubby little hand, and wonder when she got so small and delicate. “We don’t have a relationship anymore, because we want two entirely different things out of a relationship.”

  Also, she’s a horrifying bitch, and if I ever raised my hand to a woman it would be to toss her out of this house by the scruff like a bad dog.

  She shakes her head. “She really wants to be with you, Jamie, she means it.”

  “She does want to be with me. That much is true. And it’s also true that we were good together for a little while. But we’re just not compatible, and I don’t want to be with her. She doesn’t love me; she doesn’t want kids; and she uses people. Me, you, anyone she can get her hands on.” I look at her sincerely, and she sighs and looks down.

  “If she doesn’t love you,” she murmurs, “if she just wants your money like you keep saying, then why would she try so hard to have you?”

  “Because she doesn’t know when to give up, Mom. She hates losing, she hates being told no, and she hates being kept from having things she wants.” And I hate having to have this conversation. I’m so sorry, Mom.

  She’s starting to look upset, so I reach into one of the bags and pull out the humidor, some tape, and a package of wrapping paper.

  “Let’s take a break from dwelling on this mess. We’ll sort out what to do when emotions aren’t so high. Look here.” I unwrap the humidor, which is cedar inlaid with cocobolo and ebony. “This is what I got Mitch. Do you think he’ll like it?”

  Her face lights up and I can see the relief in her eyes that I don’t plan to let these problems with Andrea ruin our Christmas. “Oh, that’s lovely. You know, I don’t think he has a humidor.”

  “Well, I know he likes cigars, and they’re no fun when they dry out and die.” I start wrapping as we talk.

  This is how Mom has been ever since my father died. The shock of losing her best friend of fifty years took something away from her besides just her spouse. She has a certain fragility now that she never had before. Too much conflict or stress and she wilts, sometimes taking to bed like a Victorian lady with weak nerves. I’ve learned to understand her limits and work with them.

  Andrea, on the other hand, doesn’t give a damn. She’ll use and hurt my mother just like she tried to do to me, and blame both of us if she doesn’t get exactly what she wants, exactly when she wants it. And that right there is part of why she will never be right for me, ever.

  We’re talking as I wrap everything from my bags that isn’t meant for Mom. I keep the jewelry box and the Tiffany earrings I bought to put in it hidden. My middle brother Aaron has a carsick four-year-old and will be a little late, she tells me. Mitch has decided last minute that he wants to do a turducken for Christmas dinner. I laugh at the whole idea and promise Mom that I’ll help him.

  I notice pretty soon after I get Mom calmed down that Andrea is hovering at the kitchen door, arms folded, staring at me. She’s out of my mother’s line of sight, which I’m grateful for because she’s making things more awkward by the minute. I keep talking about cheerful, mundane things, ignoring her.

  “Anyway, while I was in town my friend gave me a reference to someone who works as a companion and errand-runner. You said you were looking to hire an assistant.”

  I cross my fingers mentally, watching from the corner of my eye as Andrea frowns and unfolds her arms, a line appearing between her brows. That’s right, you’re not worth fretting over for more than five minutes at a time. We have lives to get on with.

  My mother bobs her head as she gets up to put the teapot on. “Oh yes,” she says cheerfully. “I hope it’s a young woman. I’d feel strange having another man in the house.”

  “She’s a young single mother who has been working up here for a few years now. She needs the work, and I know you like kids, so when I found out about her I got her contact information.” I offer her the card that Lorena gave me. I already have her number in my phone in case it gets lost.

  “That sounds promising. Do you know what she’s like? As a person, I mean.” She bustles around filling a tea ball with chamomile flowers, as Andrea slowly draws back out of the doorway, apparently satisfied that we’re not plotting to boot her out in the snow. Yet.

  “She’s very kind, and her little girl is almost three and an absolute sweetheart. She’s a war widow.” I know that will get to my mother. Maybe it’s manipulative of me, but if it ends up with her getting some help and Lorena getting a job, I’ll live with that mild guilt.

  “Oh, well then, certainly. Let’s give her a call tomorrow, once I’ve sle
pt on the idea. I’m sure she won’t mind a Christmas Eve call if she’s hurting for work.” She brings out the honey pot and turns her back to keep puttering as I surreptitiously start wrapping her gifts behind the screen of the bags.

  “Just so. I hope it’s a good fit.” For more reasons than one.

  Andrea ambushes me after dinner as I’m trying to clear my head over a brandy in Dad’s old library. This time she has the sense not to barge into the room—but she doesn’t knock before pushing the door open either.

  I ignore her for a moment, staring into the small fire I’ve gotten going in the grate as I think wistfully of Lorena’s shy smile. If only she were here, and not this shrew in model’s clothing.