Winter Affair (11 page)

It was a clear, cold night, serenely still, the stars scattered like chips of ice against a dark expanse of frigid sky. The air was crisp and clean, like chilled chablis, and the scent of wood smoke drifted through it from the neighborhood chimneys, adding a subtle note to the bouquet. Leda inhaled deeply, pulling her collar closer around her neck. Thus fortified, she walked down to the street to examine the damage on her car.

There was one big dent with several scratches, which didn’t look too bad by the feeble light from the street lamps but might be a startling revelation on Christmas morning. A Phelps van had arrived in the middle of the afternoon, with her car trailing behind it, driven by a teenager who knocked on her door and handed over the keys she’d left with Reardon. When Leda asked about the towing bill, the kid shook his head and said that Mr. Kendall wanted him to tell her it was “on the house.” He loped off and got into the van, which then drove away.

There was no sign of Reardon.

Leda unlocked her door and set the package carefully on the floor in the back, guarding against the sudden stops, likely in this weather, that might turn her offering into bird seed by the time she arrived. Then she got in front and steered the little car cautiously onto the icy road, skittish about driving after the incident that morning. She took it slow, and as the distance to Sara Master’s house was not far, Leda found herself pulling to stop across from the two story colonial before she had formulated what she wanted to say to Reardon. She shut off the engine and stared into space, unable to come up with a witty entry line, or even an entertaining explanation for her presence. She invariably turned into a brainless dolt in emotional moments; after the fact, she could always invent charming and interesting repartee, but at the required time she drew a blank. She was drawing one now, so she surrendered and examined the lower floor of the house, occupied by Sara and her husband. It was brightly lit, and the Christmas tree in the bay window blazed like a torch, so Leda concluded glumly that the Masters were home. She was hoping that they might be out, so that her visit would have a better chance of going unobserved. But there was a light in Reardon’s apartment too. Her father had always closed the hangar early on Christmas Eve and Phelps had apparently maintained the custom.

Leda started the car again and parked it around the corner, away from Sara’s prying eyes. She wasn’t ashamed of her interest in Reardon, but if Sara saw her she would definitely tell Monica. A Christmas Day confrontation with her aunt, in front of an audience of staring relatives, was to be avoided at all costs. Leda locked the doors and walked back to the house, quietly taking the exterior stairway to the second floor. Clutching her package like a good luck charm, she knocked on Reardon’s door.

She could hear music coming from the apartment, but there was no answer to her summons. She knocked again, harder, and after a few moments Reardon pulled the door open, barefoot and shirtless, clad only in a pair of corduroy jeans. His lips parted in surprise when he saw Leda.

“Hello, Kyle,” she greeted him. “This is for you.” She extended the package she held.

He stared at it, then at her. “A Christmas present?” he said.

“A thank you gift. For your heroic rescue.”

He snorted. “It was hardly heroic. It wasn’t even a rescue. But thanks anyway, I appreciate it.” He took the plate and they looked at each other.

“May I come in?” Leda asked primly, seeing that he was not going to cooperate. She knew he wasn’t rude; he would invite her inside if she asked him to do so.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he answered, stepping back to let her pass. “It must be freezing out there.”

Leda walked into the small apartment, and he shut the door behind her. She glanced around at the spare furnishings, the Spartan décor. Her eye settled on the roaring fire on the hearth, the only element of warmth and cheer in the room.

“The fire is lovely, just the thing on such a cold night,” she said.

He nodded, putting his hands in his pockets and watching her. He was obviously uncomfortable and she was beginning to wish she had stayed at home with Barbara Stanwyck.

“No tree?” she asked brightly, examining the empty corners of the room.

“I got a tree,” he said flatly, jerking his thumb at the top of the battered stereo. It was a plastic, lopsided silver imitation, about a foot high, with lackluster, tarnished decorations. God only knew where he had gotten it, but the sight of it made Leda want to cry. She quickly turned away and looked at him, which was a mistake.

The hard beauty of his body made her mouth go dry with longing. His smooth, muscular arms and shoulders, covered by a matte expanse of satiny skin, begged for her touch. His broad chest, roughened by fine dark hair like that on his head, tapered to a narrow waist, and she could see the sturdy muscles of his abdomen, flat and firm under the closure of his jeans. Her eyes moved slowly to his face, and she could tell that he knew what she was thinking. She gradually became aware that the stereo was playing a song she had heard before, but which took on new meaning in this context. Reardon’s gaze moved from her lips, down to her body, enshrouded in her duffel coat, and back to her mouth again as the singer intoned the low, intimate lyrics:

“I wake up at night
 

with the sheets soaking wet,
 

and a freight train running
 

through the middle of my head.
 

Only you can quench my desire,

Oh oh oh, I’m on fire.”

Reardon swallowed hard, walked directly to the stereo, and switched it off. A heavy silence filled the room.

“Please excuse the mess,” Reardon finally said, clearing his throat. “I wasn’t expecting company. How come you aren’t at a party or something tonight?”

“Oh, well, I was invited to one, but I thought I’d visit you instead.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why? Is this your good deed in honor of the holiday? Dispense a little charity to the local pariah?”

Leda turned on her heel. “I didn’t mean to intrude on your privacy. I’ll go.”

She hadn’t taken two steps before he was at her side, his long fingers closing over her arm. “Leda, please stay. I’m sorry. I seem to suspect everyone’s motives these days.” He shrugged helplessly, shaking his head. “Being alone so much has turned me into quite a boor. I wasn’t always this way, I assure you.”

“I believe that,” she said softly, meeting his eyes. “But I wish you would see that not everyone is out to get you.”

“I’m beginning to see that you’re not,” he replied with the trace of a smile. He released her arm and gestured to a chair. “Let me have your coat, and take a seat. I’ll make some coffee, okay?”

“Okay,” Leda agreed as he helped her out of her coat, charmed by his awkward attempt to play host. He tossed her coat on an overstuffed sofa. That, along with two chairs, a desk, and the battered kitchen set next to the stove comprised all the furniture in the room. She could see a bedroom beyond it, equally spare.

With quarters like these, no wonder he spent so much time at work.

“What’s that I smell?” she asked, sniffing the air.

“Stew,” he replied. “I was just making dinner.” He walked over to the stove and stirred something in a pot.

She watched what he was doing, and realized that “making dinner” consisted of heating up a can of prepared stew. “Maybe I can help,” she suggested. “Have you got any eggs?”

He turned back to her. “Sure.”

“Cheese, butter, tomatoes, onions?” she went on, and he smiled.

“I think so,” he said.

“Fine. How about some omelets?”

He gestured to the tiny kitchenette, which consisted of a series of ancient, mismatched appliances strung together along one wall. “Be my guest.”

Leda went to work, and while she was removing items from the refrigerator she noticed that he picked up a sweatshirt folded on a shelf and pulled it over his head. Clothing made him look slim and rangy, disguising his strong, muscular build. In the jeans and pullover, he resembled a college kid ready for an afternoon of touch football.

“These will be ready in just a minute,” she called over her shoulder, wondering what he was doing. When she turned to look she saw that he was clearing a space on the scarred maple drop leaf table, shifting piles of books and pamphlets from its surface to the sofa.

“What is all that stuff?” she asked as he came to her side and removed a couple of plates from the cupboard above her head, handing them to her.

“I’ve been reading up on the procedure for getting my license back,” he replied. “You know the government, a million forms and a sea of red tape.” He led her to the table and they sat together. He jumped up suddenly and returned with silverware and two napkins.

“Sorry,” he said, depositing the things on the table. “I’m not exactly equipped to entertain. I eat by myself, and it’s more like the Boy Scout Jamboree around here than the epitome of gracious dining.”

“What do you eat when you’re alone?” she asked, taking a bite.

He shrugged. “Yogurt, cottage cheese, ice cream, anything you can devour straight from the container.” He cut into his omelet and forked a large piece into his mouth. He chewed it industriously, then swallowed. His eyes widened.

“Hey, this is real good,” he said, digging in with gusto. His omelet was twice as large as Leda’s and he made short work of it.

“Thank you. One of the benefits of a boarding school education. You become an expert at making anything that can be prepared on a hotplate,” Leda replied dryly.

He grinned, and her heart turned over. What a smile. She could easily fall into the trap of trying to elicit it.

Leda finished, and when she got up to clear the dishes he waved her away.

“This I can do,” he said, scraping the dishes and putting them in the sink. “And I can make coffee. I make it every day.” He proceeded to do so, filling the pot at the sink and plugging the percolator into the wall. When he was done he dragged both of his chairs in front of the fireplace and gestured for her to sit in one of them.

“The package I brought is cookies,” Leda said. “Maybe you’d like some for dessert.”

“Great,” he said, looking around the room. “I’ll get them.” He paused. “What did I do with them?”

“I think you put the plate on the table by the door.” Leda responded, amused and touched by his efforts to entertain her. He was eager, almost boyish, in his enthusiasm, and it was a side of him she had never seen. He returned with the plate and gave it to her.

“Do you have any family?” she asked as he got out the cups for the coffee.

“None left around here,” he answered. “My parents are both dead and I was an only child. I have some aunts and cousins on my mother’s side out in Ohio, but I...” He trailed off, and then resumed. “I haven’t heard from them since I went to jail.”

“Oh,” she said, unsure how to respond. “That’s too bad.”

He shrugged. “I’ve become the relative nobody wants to recognize. Before all this happened to me, I never really understood what it means to be the black sheep of the family.” He joined Leda in front of the fire, pouring out the coffee. “I hope this stuff is all right,” he said, gesturing to the steaming drink. “I’m the only one who ever drinks it and I’m used to it.”

“It’s fine,” Leda answered, taking a sip and returning the mug to the tray. Reardon disdained the chair across from her and sat at her feet on the small hearth rug, opening up the package she’d brought.

“You made these?” he asked, popping a wreath into his mouth.

“Yes.”

“They’re fantastic,” he mumbled, swallowing a frosted star. “You’re really a good cook.”

“No, I’m not,” Leda said, laughing. “Omelets and cookies are the extent of my repertoire. I can’t offer a well rounded menu with only two dishes.”

“That’s two more than I can make,” Reardon said philosophically, drinking his coffee. He bent his head to put the cup on the floor, and the firelight danced in his dark hair, making it glow with highlights. He looked very young, Leda thought once more, the customary care lines wiped from his face as he sampled goodies like a guilty child.

“Are you warm enough?” he asked suddenly. “My heater is broken again, I have to make time to fix it. The fire is good for me, but...”

“The fire is wonderful,” Leda answered. She watched as he put another log on it, stirring the embers below the blaze with a poker. “Do you always fix anything that breaks?” she asked him.

He nodded. “Just about,” he said. “It’s a good thing too, because I can’t afford repairs. I got a lot of experience tinkering around with appliances in prison.”

“You did?” Leda asked.

“Yeah, they had to find a job for me. You know, they pay you two cents an hour or something according to state law. So I was the fixit man, and they kept me pretty busy.” He smiled sardonically. “A lot of things get broken in the joint.”

“How is everything working out for you at Phelps?” Leda asked quietly.

He looked up at her. “All right. Kendall is fair, and the work keeps me busy.”

“Do you think you’ll get your license back?”

A shadow crossed his face. “I don’t know. Right now it doesn’t look too good. The powers that be aren’t too high on criminals flying the friendly skies.”