AFTERGLOW (19 page)

"Nathan," Margaret said stiffly, "is a gentleman. He is very concerned for
my
feelings, and he isn't old, David."

Oh, Margaret, David thought, looking at his ex-wife. We certainly didn't do things right, did we? He said abruptly, closing the subject, "I wish you luck with your gentleman general, Margaret. And I am sorry, but Andrea Winston-Barnett will have to fend for herself." He added, lightly touching her arm, "You've done your duty, but I'm really not at all interested."

"I suppose this Chelsea woman gives you all the sex you want?"

"Didn't you see the gray hairs?" he asked, trying to keep things light.

"I thought as much," Margaret said distastefully, moving away from him. "Since she doesn't appear to be after you for your money, she must be one of those loose individuals that sleep from pillar to post."

"What an odd phrase," David said, but he felt his hands clenching at his sides. He saw that she was revved up for more insults and said quickly, "Let's drop it, all right, Margaret? I imagine the children have done the puzzle, probably two times over by now."

"Very well," Margaret said stiffly, and walked toward the door.

"Margaret," he called after her quietly. She turned. "Did you ever think I was sexy? Did you ever enjoy making love with me?"

"Yes," she said just as quietly. "And yes." She turned again and left the living room.

Life, he thought, staring after her, is bloody strange.

Dr. Harold Lattimer put down the phone and looked at his wife. "It appears that our little girl has gotten herself into it this time," he said, shaking his head.

"David Winter is a fine man," Mimi said. "I wish the lot of them could come here for Christmas. This will be the first year Chelsea hasn't been home."

"I wonder if she would have come if his children hadn't been dropped on his doorstep?"

Mimi tried for a Gaelic shrug, her memory of Paris still warm.
"Qui sait?"
she asked. She frowned a moment, wondering if that was correct, then shrugged again. It sounded good, and it sounded French.

Dr. Lattimer reached for the phone.

"Who are you calling, Harry?"

"A catering company in Marin," he said. "I'll have them make up a big Christmas feast for Chelsea and her brood. I don't think Chelsea would know the front end of a turkey from its pope's nose."

"I say, Harry," Mimi said after he'd made the catering arrangements, "I could get us two tickets for, say, London."

"Look," he grumbled, "they do speak English there, but it just isn't proper English."

"I have it, then," Mimi announced. "Hawaii!"

Harry Lattimer knew when he'd lost. He had no hope at all that there wouldn't be reservations available, even at this late date. Mimi
always
got reservations.

Chelsea placed the phone back into its cradle and stared for a moment at absolutely nothing. Her first exposure to David's children hadn't been a particularly startling success. Christmas was, for Chelsea, a time of laughter and fun, not two blank-faced kids sitting on the edge of the sofa, staring at her as if she were the wicked witch of the West, bent on hexing their father.

When a messenger had delivered a cuckoo clock later that afternoon, wrapped in a huge red bow, and a notice that her Christmas meal for four people would be catered, she laughed so hard it took a rude noise from the messenger to get his tip.

"George," she said into the phone a few minutes later, "you're simply not going to believe what my folks have done now!"

"Knowing your parents, Chels, it has to be outrageous," George said, rearranging Alex on her shoulder. "Come on, give."

"A cuckoo clock and a catered Christmas meal for me, David and his kids! I do wonder what they meant by the cuckoo clock, though."

George dutifully laughed, then said, "That takes care of Christmas Day. How 'bout the group of you coming here for dinner on Christmas Eve? I swear Elliot will do most of the cooking."

"You're not going to see your parents this year?"

"January will be our month for pilgrimages."

"It will be a madhouse," Elliot said later that evening after George gave him the news. "No," he amended thoughtfully, "probably not."

"Why not?"

"David's kids. They're so uptight, so very careful, you wonder if they ever fight, even between themselves."

"You've met them?"

"Yep. David brought them to the hospital for a tour. They were dressed like two little models, and so polite it made you nervous."

"What about their mother? Margaret, isn't that it?"

"The ex-Mrs. Winter has taken off for Honolulu to vacation with a general, so David said. Three stars. Most interesting."

George looked thoughtfully at the overly large serving Elliot had dished up for her dinner. "Chelsea is the unknown factor here, isn't she?"

"Eat," Elliot said automatically. "Do you wonder if those kids of David's can maintain their formal pose around her?"

"It is an interesting thought," said George.

Chelsea drove over the Golden Gate Bridge late on the afternoon of Christmas Eve, the passenger seat loaded with presents.

For once she wasn't plotting. She'd left her hero, Saint, blinded by an explosion at a foundry, and her heroine, Juliana, holding his head in her lap.

She stopped gnawing on her thumbnail long enough to pay her dollar toll.

"Merry Christmas," the fellow at the tollgate said.

"Yeah, Christmas," she said toward the presents beside her. She hadn't seen David or his children since that afternoon two days before, and she wondered how he was making out. On the phone he sounded quite chipper, particularly since Margaret had left for Hawaii. And, she thought, smiling a bit wickedly, he missed her; that had been expressed in the most mournful voice she'd ever heard from him.

She missed him, too. I think I've become addicted to him, she admitted to herself as she turned her car onto Lombard Street. She'd never been addicted to anything before, certainly not a man, and it was a disturbing thing to have happen.

She pulled into the driveway, noticed David's Lancia, Nancy, already parked on the sidewalk and checked her face in the mirror. She was dressed to the teeth, and was even wearing her lucky gray fedora. At least it smashed down her hair a bit. "I look great," she told herself, "and there isn't a patch on my bottom."

David's eyes agreed with her own assessment. As for her, she wanted to throw her arms around him and kiss him until he was unconscious. Instead she said, "Hi."

"Hi, yourself, gorgeous," he said, and lightly kissed her lips. "Lord, you smell good enough to eat," he added.

She slanted him a look that made his body react instantly. "Chels," he said, and quickly turned away.

Taylor and Mark were seated just as she'd expected them to be, stiff as little sticks on the edge of the sofa. They greeted her politely, and that was that.

"White wine, please, Elliot," she whispered as he hugged her. "A glass followed by a jug, probably."

"They'll loosen up, Chels," Elliot said. "Just be yourself. No one can be immune to that."

Chelsea, fortified with a glass of white wine, joined David and the kids.

"Dad took us to the hospital," Mark said.

"It smelled," Taylor said. "Very funny."

"I agree," Chelsea said. "I was there not too long ago and your dad took care of me. In a manner of speaking," she added, smiling crookedly at David.

"She was a lousy patient," David said. "Wouldn't do a thing I said, fought with me, yelled at me—"

"Goodness," Taylor said, wide-eyed. "You did that to Father?"

"He really isn't the pope, Taylor," Chelsea said. "There is bull involved, but there's nothing papal about it."

"You've been wrong before, Chels," David said, giving her an intimate look. "Remember?"

Chelsea sighed deeply. "No, not really. It's been too long."

"When were you wrong, Chelsea?" Mark asked.

"Well," Chelsea said confidentially, leaning toward Mark, "your father made me a wager. He took great advantage of me, I fear, but the results are still far from conclusive."

"I don't know about that," David began, only to leap to his feet when George, her timing always exquisite, came into the living room, carrying Alex.

"Oh," Taylor gasped, staring at the vision. "You're so beautiful!"

And what am I? Chelsea wondered. A witch with spinach between her teeth?

"Thank you," George said, smiling at the young girl. "You're Taylor, right? Mark? Welcome to our home. My name is George."

"That's a funny name," Mark said.

"Yes, very true. And this is Alex." She lowered the baby for inspection.

"He's awfully small," Taylor said. Alex, demonstrating a sudden burst of showmanship, grabbed her finger and gave her a blurred baby's smile.

"Yes, he is," George said. "It scares the wits out of me—you know, I'm afraid of dropping him on his head or something equally awful."

"Mother must have dropped you on your head," Mark said to his sister.

Excellent, Chelsea thought, they aren't always so saintly. She said to Taylor, "Do you know that George is a very famous model? She's also on TV."

"Really?" Taylor breathed reverently.

"Really," George said. "Would you like to hold Alex, Taylor?"

"You can pretend you're one of the Three Wise
…
women," Chelsea said.

George laughed. "He is perfect, Chels, but even I wouldn't go that far!"

"Dinner," Elliot said, coming into the living room. "I've done my best, guys. Hope you like everything."

Mark looked at Taylor, then blurted out, "You cooked dinner, sir?"

"Yes, indeed, Mark," Elliot said.

"But men don't do things like that," Taylor said.

"Are we going to have another truism from Grandmother Winter?" Chelsea asked.

"Yes," Taylor said firmly. "It is a woman's job to make the house pleasant and to manage the servants."

Elliot sent David a wicked, crooked grin, and David, wishing he could stuff cotton into Taylor's small mouth, hastily said, "Things are different in California, kids. Here men and women both do everything. It's
…
well, it's more fun that way."

"And we don't starve," George added. "Come into the dining room now. I'll put Alex to bed and join you shortly."

"Do you believe that, David?" Chelsea asked as they walked behind the kids into the dining room.

"I'm trying to figure out just what I believe," he said. "Odd, but I don't remember my mother being so very ironclad in her notions."

"You were a boy," Chelsea said, "not a girl."

He looked thoughtful at that. "I'll have to look after Taylor," he said. "Maybe it's not such a bad idea to have a woman bringing in the bread."

"Half a loaf," Chelsea said. "Less pressure on the husband, I expect."

"As in no ulcers?"

She merely smiled up at him, and he wanted at that instant to throw her to the floor and make love to her. He groaned softly, his hand on her back drifting lower for a moment.

His hand was just about to curve around her bottom, when he cursed softly and helped her into her chair. She heard Elliot chuckle.

Mark was uncertain whether he should compliment a man on his cooking. He was saved possible embarrassment when his dad said, "Great, Elliot. That dressing had cranberries and walnuts in it, right?"

Mark decided to be impressed. His dad knew the ingredients, so it must be all right, a manly thing, in fact. "Yes," he added, "and the gravy was wonderful."

"Thank you all," Elliot said. "Taylor, you want some more lemonade?"

"No, sir," Taylor said, sleepy from all the food.