'Tis the Season (23 page)

“Billy's working some things through,” Evan conceded, “but that doesn't mean we can't all spend the day together.”

“What happened with their mother?” she asked. “I know it's not my business, and if you don't want to talk about it, I'll understand. But I just can't believe…” She trailed off.

“You can't believe what?”

“I can't believe a woman would have walked out on them. And on you,” she added quietly.

He let out a long breath. No, he didn't want to talk about it, but whether or not it was her business was irrelevant. He was going to lose her anyway. So why not tell her? It wasn't as if he had to protect his ego or project himself as some sort of irresistible stud no woman could turn her back on. He might as well tell Filomena the truth.

“You have a minute?” he asked, smiling wryly. “Or maybe an hour?”

Her smile looked warmer than his felt. “I've got time.”

He slid his hand around hers and led her into the kitchen. Through the doorway to the den he heard the rumble of the TV. “Bedtime, Billy,” he shouted.

“Can I just watch the end of this show?”

He glanced at the wall clock. Three minutes past eight—which meant that the show wouldn't end until eight-thirty at the earliest. “No,” he insisted. “Bedtime now. I'll be upstairs to tuck you in in fifteen minutes.”

“Okay,” Billy grumbled. After a moment the TV went silent and Evan heard the clomp of footsteps up the stairs.

He motioned toward the table. Filomena sat, her long skirt billowing and then settling onto her legs. He saw the slope of her thighs beneath the fabric, the angle of her knees. Deliberately, he turned away. “Would you like something to drink?”

“No, thanks.”

He pulled a beer from the fridge for himself, wrenched off the cap and returned to the table, where he planted himself in a chair facing her. He took a swig of beer, let the sour bubbles lubricate his throat and then began. “She left more than two years ago. Almost two and a half now.”

“Why?”

This was the hard part—admitting why. Admitting that he had disappointed Debbie, failed to satisfy her, come in second in a two-man race. “She fell for someone else,” he said, keeping his tone as even and neutral as he could.

Filomena laughed. He set down his bottle with a sharp thump, wounded that she could find the miserable story of his divorce amusing. She must have sensed his hurt, because she choked back her laughter and shook her head. “I'm sorry. It's just that…it's so hard to believe.”

“What's hard to believe about it?”

Her smile lingered, softening as she gazed at him. “I don't know. If you were to stand side by side with an
other man, it would have to be a pretty spectacular other man to make a woman choose him over you.”

He appreciated the compliment imbedded in her words, but the fact remained that Debbie had chosen the other man. “He was pretty spectacular,” he confirmed. He might have added that
spectacular
was a relative term, that every woman had her own definition of it and that when Debbie had walked out on him, he'd understood, deep in his soul, that she'd left because she didn't consider him the least bit spectacular. His ego had healed since then, but the scar tissue still ached every now and then, like a touch of arthritis at the site of an old injury.

“And her leaving the kids, too,” Filomena continued. “It boggles the mind.”

He shrugged. Obviously, Mr. Spectacular had been
so
spectacular Debbie had been willing to sacrifice her children for him. “He was a baseball star. I'd brought him in to do a promotion for Champion Sports, and she fell for him.”

“A jock?” Filomena shook her head again. “She left you and the kids for a jock?”

“She liked jocks,” Evan said, almost as if he were defending Debbie. “I was a jock when she fell for me. That was clearly what she was looking for—a jock.”

“I can't picture you as a jock,” Filomena argued. “You're too…” She struggled to find the right word.

“Too what?”

“Smart?” she suggested, then grinned.

He could have taken offense, as an erstwhile jock, that she was generalizing about the intellectual limitations of jocks. But her smile was so good-natured he didn't. “Some jocks are smart. Some are stupid.” He took a swallow of beer and leaned back in his chair, amazed
that even plodding through this unpleasant conversation, he was glad to be with Filomena, soothed by her company and stirred by her beauty. “My senior year of college I was scouted by a couple of professional baseball teams. But a pro-ball career wasn't what I wanted. I was good, but I wasn't superstar material. I'd have wound up playing minor league for a few years, traveling around on buses and earning next to nothing. Maybe I'd have made it to triple-A. Maybe even a major-league team for a season or two. But it wasn't what I wanted. I wanted to put down roots, create a home, have kids.”

“Much more worthwhile goals than playing baseball,” Filomena said. Well, of course she'd say that. She had a pretty low opinion of sports and jocks.

“I was very clear with Debbie about what I wanted to do, and she went ahead and married me anyway. Maybe she shouldn't have. But she did, so I assumed that she wanted the same things I wanted. Maybe at first she
did
want those things, or else she just buried her own feelings and accepted what she had. I don't know.”

“Maybe she married you because she loved you,” Filomena suggested.

“Maybe.” He allowed himself a faint smile. “I was sure she loved the kids, at least. She went through some postpartum stuff—mood swings, depression. I urged her to see a professional to help her work through that. She didn't want to, though. She said she wasn't crazy—she was just sick and tired of changing diapers and cleaning up spills. I did as much of the child care as I could, but I had to support us, too. I couldn't do everything.”

Damn it, he sounded as though he was blaming himself. Intellectually, he knew better than to bear the blame
for Debbie's change of heart. But he couldn't help feeling that it was at least partly his fault.

Filomena looked as if she was going to say something comforting. He didn't want her to comfort him, to tell him everything had been Debbie's fault. He didn't want her to feel sorry for him. When he saw her extending her hand across the table, he pulled his own hands back and linked them around the bottle of beer, balancing it on his knee.

“She left because this golden boy came along, this jock idol, the kind of guy she'd always dreamed about, and he opened his arms to her,” Evan said crisply, determined to communicate to Filomena that he had no use for comforting. “She left us and went off with him. And that was that.”

A shadow of concern darkened Filomena's eyes. “Does she keep in touch with the children at all?”

“No. That's the part I'll never forgive her for—abandoning them like that.”

“You forgive her for abandoning you?”

“I can take it.”

“I think your kids can take it, too,” Filomena observed calmly. “They seem to be doing wonderfully. Maybe because they have such a wonderful father.”

He wasn't so sure about that. Hadn't Gracie's preschool teacher urged him to take classes in how to be a better father? Hadn't he been sitting in those classes the past few Monday evenings, listening to Allison Winslow and trying to learn what was lacking in his fathering skills?

If the kids seemed to be doing wonderfully, it was probably because of Filomena. They needed a woman in their lives, one who was loving and caring, patient and
dependable. And except for the fact that she would be leaving in January, she was all those things.

He took another pull of beer, studying her as he swallowed. Why was it that, no matter how often he reminded himself of her plans to leave town in a few short weeks, he still wanted her? Caution—call it self-preservation—held him back, but his heart wanted her anyway. His body wanted her. Sometimes he believed even his soul wanted her.

He just couldn't bear to come in second again. With Filomena, he'd be coming in second to her life, her goals, her career, her home in New York, her friends there—hell, he was coming in sixth or seventh by that calculation.

But he still wanted her.

She probably wouldn't want him at this point. All her kind, sympathetic words notwithstanding, she knew what he was: a decent, solid, responsible guy. The sort women chose second, if at all.

“So that's what happened with their mother,” he concluded, doing his best to keep his voice uninflected. No anger, no resentment. No yearning.

“Thank you for telling me,” she said, and offered a dubious smile. “I still find it hard to believe.”

He reminded himself, yet again, that as hard as she found it to believe, she, too, would be leaving him. But she would be here for a little while longer, and he could continue to tantalize himself with the possibility that something might occur between them. “So, will you spend Christmas Day with us?” he asked.

Her smile widened. “I'd love to.”

“Okay.” He set down his beer and turned to stare at the window. If he gazed into her face for another minute,
he'd wind up circling the table, hauling her out of her chair and yelling at her for pitying him—if, indeed, she pitied him. Or he'd wind up kissing her, because she exuded so much warmth and womanliness, so much spirit. The first choice would be wrongheaded, the second choice just plain wrong.

She pushed away from the table and stood. “I really should be going,” she said. “It's getting late.”

“And I've got to tuck in Billy,” he remembered, shoving to his feet. He stifled the instinct to touch her arm as they walked back out to the hall. She opened the closet and pulled her jacket off its hanger. He took it from her and held it so she could slide her arms into the sleeves. And then, because it was part of the same motion, he smoothed the jacket over her shoulders. Through the thick suede he felt her, and a pain tugged at him in his gut, below his belt, in his brain. He wanted her. In spite of everything.

He forced himself to lift his hands, and she rotated to face him. She peered up, her eyes locking onto his, and murmured, “Your wife was a very foolish woman.” Then, as if she could read everything in his gaze—his thoughts and his wants and his future, like the future she read for his children in the cards—she rose on tiptoe and touched her mouth to his.

His willpower crumbled; his self-protectiveness evaporated. He returned his hands to her shoulders and pulled her closer. Her hair was caught inside the collar of her jacket and he eased it out, just for the pleasure of having it spill against his skin. Then he kissed her, brushing her lips with his, stroking, nipping, coaxing, taking everything she would give.

She gave plenty, her body softening against him, her
mouth opening to him. His tongue found hers and he groaned.

She tasted so good. She felt even better. She felt like friendship and warmth, like hunger and lust. He wanted to yank off her jacket so he could feel her body closer to his own, but she'd just put the jacket on, and he knew that sooner or later—
sooner
—she was going to ease out of this kiss and say good-night. What she'd started in the front hall wasn't going to end in his bed.

And that was probably just as well. No matter how perfectly she fit in his arms, no matter how erotically her tongue moved against his, no matter how much the warm scent of her, the faint sighs trembling in her throat and the tentative motions of her fingers against his arms unleashed his own long-simmering desire, he wasn't going to make love with her. Not tonight.

Maybe—if he came to his senses—never.

But he didn't want to come to his senses, not quite yet. He wanted to hold her for just a moment longer, to stroke the breadth of her lips with his tongue, to twine his fingers into her hair and savor its weight and texture. Just one precious moment longer.

She was the one to break away, turning her face and resting her head against his shoulder. He ran his hands gently through her hair as she struggled to catch her breath. After a while she was no longer panting, and he lowered his arms to circle her waist, just to hug her.

“I don't know where we're going with this, Evan,” she whispered. “I really don't.”

“Don't worry about it,” he said, to himself as much as her. “Just let it be.”

She leaned back and angled her head to look at him. A hesitant smile played across her mouth. Her lips were
damp from kissing him, and that sheen of moisture turned him on even more. He wondered if she could feel his arousal through all the layers of clothing she had on. “I should go,” she said, which led him to conclude that she could.

“Okay.” He would see her tomorrow. He would see her that weekend, when she and the kids would create their gingerbread house. He would see her on Christmas Day and New Year's Eve and as many other days as she would let him.

Maybe they would kiss again. Maybe one of those kisses would end in his bed. Maybe she would revamp her entire life so she could be with him for a long, long time. Maybe she would decide staying in Arlington seemed like a much better idea than leaving.