’Tis the Season Read online

  “I’ll stay,” she said.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  GRACIE NIBBLED at the meat and rice, poked the shell of the green pepper with the tines of her fork and pronounced the meal delicious. Billy actually ate a few bites of his pepper and most of his meat, although he carefully separated all the grains of rice from it.

  Evan didn’t care if they didn’t finish their meals. It wasn’t as if they were going to starve to death. And anyway, he had more important things on his mind than whether his kids cleaned their plates. As soon as he realized they were spending more time pushing their food around than consuming it, he excused them from the table and they bolted out of the kitchen, arguing over who was going to hold the remote control while they watched TV.

  When they were gone, he was left alone with Filomena—who shouldn’t have been the most important thing on his mind. But she was.

  He’d had an unusual day—a surprisingly good one, considering how it had started. Tank Moody had done a fabulous job in New Haven. He’d been ingratiating and funny with the customers. He’d posed for snapshots with fans, flirted with gray-haired ladies, discussed sports with paunchy men and emptied the store’s entire stock of Tank Moody jerseys and footballs, all of which he autographed with patience and good humor. He’d stayed at the store forty-five minutes longer than he’d been scheduled to, just because people kept coming in and wanting his autograph. Evan hadn’t had to do anything except keep Tank’s glass of ice water filled and help the store manager and clerks maintain order among the hordes of fans.

  They’d journeyed back to Arlington in the limo, and Tank had dropped him off with a promise to meet him next week for the promotion in New London. Evan had returned to his office to find no major catastrophes awaiting him. Jennifer had badgered him a bit about Pep Insoles, and he’d warned her that if she didn’t bug off, he’d make her do the New London promotion with Tank. The threat worked; she’d avoided mentioning insoles for the rest of the afternoon.

  He’d telephoned his friend Murphy and asked him about the Daddy School. “It’s great,” Murphy said—which wasn’t really what he’d hoped to hear. “I don’t remember much about it, except that it’s thanks to the Daddy School that I’m married to Molly’s sister.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Gail and I went to the Daddy School classes together. I think Molly coerced us into going because she was playing matchmaker.”

  “How did that make you a better father?”

  “It didn’t. I was already the best damned father in Arlington.”

  Evan hadn’t exactly been persuaded that the Daddy School would do him any good. He wasn’t looking for a wife. Even if he were…

  His gaze zeroed in on Filomena.

  No, he wasn’t looking for a wife—but it sure had been nice to walk into his house and have a woman waiting there for him. It had been nice to be greeted by his children and the enticing aroma of something delicious roasting in the oven. It had been nice to come home to a warm, well-lit, welcoming place, and to have an adult sitting across the table from him while he ate.

  “This is really good,” he said, scooping another stuffed pepper from the platter. His third, but he didn’t care if he was making a pig of himself. The kids might be satisfied with broiled something for dinner every night, but he appreciated variety.

  “The children hated it,” she said pensively.

  “The children have no taste,” he said, then smiled because she seemed worried. “Really. This is a treat for me. I don’t expect you to be cooking dinner for us every night.”

  “I’m sure the kids will consider that good news,” she said. He detected the hint of a smile on her lips.

  “Tell me about your day,” he said. He was tired of thinking about his own obligations, his overbooked schedule, his stresses and strains. More than just having another adult to gaze at over dinner, he wanted another adult to talk to—or better yet, to listen to. He wanted to be reminded that an entire world existed beyond Champion Sports and the Children’s Garden preschool, the Elm Street after-school program and an occasional night of poker.

  “My day?” She set her fork down and regarded him with apparent surprise, her eyebrows arched and her head tilted.

  The dark luster of her hair tempted him. If the table had been smaller, he might have given in to the urge to reach across it and touch her hair, to weave his fingers through the lushness of it. Lucky for her the table blocked him—and luckier that he had enough common sense to know touching her was out of the question.

  “Your day,” he repeated.

  “Well…I swept my back porch.”

  He wasn’t sure if she was joking. Her mouth was solemn, but her eyes sparkled. “That must have been exciting,” he said dryly.

  “It was depressing,” she confessed. “The paint is flaking off. I’ve got to repaint the porch before I put the house up for sale. But it’s nearly winter.”

  “It’s not too cold,” he told her. “How big is the porch? You might be able to do it over the weekend.”

  “How could I possibly hire someone so fast? In New York, you have to book contractors months in advance. I’m sure that’s true here, too.”

  “Contractors? Can’t you just paint the porch yourself?”

  She seemed dubious. “I wouldn’t begin to know how.”

  “It’s not brain surgery, Fil. You scrape off the loose old paint, sand the wood down a little, then slap on a fresh coat.”

  “You make it sound easy.” She shrugged. “Some of us know how to cook. Others know how to paint porches.”

  “And in the long run, cooking is probably a more important skill,” he conceded with a laugh. “You want me to paint your porch for you? I could probably get it done over the weekend if it’s not too big.”

  “It’s small, but no,” she said. “I couldn’t ask that of you.”

  “You didn’t ask. I offered.”

  “And I said no, Evan.” She actually seemed kind of stunned. “You work so hard all week—you don’t even have time to pick your daughter up from her preschool. You can’t spend your weekend painting my porch.”

  “The kids could help,” he said, the idea popping into his head as he spoke it. “Why not? We can turn it into a family activity. And you can keep them occupied while I do the hard parts.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather do something fun with them? Take them to a movie or something?”

  “I’m so sick of G-rated movies,” he groaned melodramatically. “No, I wouldn’t rather take them to a movie. If you want to take them to a movie while I paint your porch, that would be great.”

  “Evan.” Apparently she thought he was joking.

  He wasn’t. Painting the porch would be an easy job, unless the porch was twenty-by-forty, with rotting boards and an intricate ornamental railing. Sitting through one more full-length cartoon, or one more movie about an underdog sports team with a crabby coach, or one more science-fiction extravaganza with enhanced sound effects, was likely to send him screaming for Thorazine. Filomena obviously didn’t know what taking children to the movies was like. “Not only are the movies lousy,” he explained, “but someone invariably spills a soda or drops an open box of candy that costs more than the gross national product of Peru, so all the candies roll away, and the theater is filled with squealing, whimpering kids. And the floor is sticky.”

  “From the spilled soda and candy,” Filomena guessed, her smile ripening. “Are the movies really that lousy?”

  “I don’t know. You like books about talking pigs. You might enjoy movies about dancing candlesticks and Darth Vader’s childhood.”

  “You sound a little burned-out,” she observed gently.

  “A little?” He snorted, then settled back in his chair and mulled over her statement. “Maybe that’s why Molly thinks I need the Daddy School.”

  “The Daddy School?”

  He sighed. He didn’t want to whine—but damn, it was so nice talking to her. Even about mundane subj
ects like back porches and fatherhood. Especially about subjects like that. “Molly is the director of Gracie’s preschool. You probably met her when you picked Gracie up.”

  “She’d already left,” Filomena told him. “I met a woman named Cara.”

  “Okay.” He nodded. Gracie had been enrolled in the Children’s Garden practically since the day Debbie had split. Evan knew everyone who worked at the place. “Cara probably thinks I need the Daddy School, too.”

  “What is the Daddy School?”

  “Classes on how to be a father. A better father,” he corrected himself, studying Filomena, measuring her reaction. Deep down, he wanted to hear her say she considered the idea of his needing such classes preposterous, even though she was in no position to judge how good a father he was.

  “When are the classes held?”

  He hadn’t expected her to focus on the practicalities of his attending the Daddy School. But why shouldn’t she? She was his new baby-sitter, his kids’ temporary part-time nanny. She probably recognized that his attending these classes would depend on some child-care arrangements. “Monday evenings. If I decide to go, I’ll figure something out.”

  “Something?” Her eyebrows rose.

  “I’ll hire a baby-sitter.” He sighed again and brushed back a lock of hair that was tickling his forehead. The logistics of his taking classes weren’t as important as his ability to talk to Filomena about them. Hell, he’d be a better father if he could talk to her every evening over dinner, after the kids were gone from the table. He’d be a better father if he could gaze into her hypnotically pretty eyes and fantasize about running his hands through her hair.

  She turned him on. She wasn’t just the perfect baby-sitter at a time in his life when he’d been so desperate even a flawed baby-sitter would have been acceptable. She was also beautiful. Womanly. Mysterious, with her alluring eyes and her enigmatic smile, the curves of her body hidden beneath shapeless skirts and baggy sweaters. From the moment he’d first seen her, he’d desired more from her than she was offering, more than he had any right to want.

  He probably didn’t even have the right to want her companionship during his evening meal. He reminded himself that she was going to be departing from Arlington as soon as the new year arrived. In less than two months, she’d be out of his life and the children’s, as well. He couldn’t get involved with her. It wouldn’t be fair for the kids to think she was anything more than a baby-sitter when she already had her return trip to New York planned.

  “…because I wouldn’t mind staying with the kids,” she was saying.

  He dragged his attention back to her. “Excuse me?”

  “I said, if you want to go to these classes, I can stay Monday evenings.”

  “I can’t ask you to do that.”

  “You didn’t ask.” Her smile widened as she returned his words to him. “I offered.”

  He was getting himself into trouble here. He’d already offered to paint her porch, and now she was offering to watch his kids beyond the time they’d agreed on when he’d hired her. If he felt guilty asking his secretary, Heather, for a personal favor, he felt even more guilty contemplating the possibility of swapping favors with Filomena—because unlike Heather, Filomena attracted him the way a target attracted a heat-seeking missile. All he wanted from Heather was an efficiently run office. What he wanted from Filomena was—

  Don’t even think it, he cautioned himself.

  She was still smiling at him. Still gazing at him, her expression curious but inviting. Once again he had to suppress the urge to leap over the table and haul her into his arms.

  Oh, yeah. He was in big trouble.

  “So, what time should I come over on Saturday to paint your porch?” he asked.

  THIS WAS GOING to be cool, Billy thought—spending the whole day at Filomena’s house. Actually going inside, looking around, checking for…well, not ghosts, because he didn’t believe in them, but spirits. He was convinced spirits lived in that big old place. Maybe, if he was really quiet and patient, he’d see one.

  The only problem was, Gracie was going to be there, too, and she didn’t know how to be quiet or patient. If spirits lived in the house, she would scare them away. She was just too loud.

  Dad pulled into the circular driveway at the front of Filomena’s and stopped the car. The front porch was stone and it didn’t need painting. The windows had wooden shutters on them, but Billy didn’t think his father was going to paint them, because he didn’t have a ladder with him, and what was the point of painting the first-floor shutters if you weren’t going to paint the upstairs shutters? That would be like washing one sock of a pair and not the other—which Billy had done, but never on purpose; just when one sock got lost under his bed or something.

  Dad was dressed in layers. He was always telling Billy and Gracie to dress in layers, but he himself never did, except when he was going to be doing outdoor activities, like raking the leaves or snow-blowing the driveway or skiing. Or painting a porch. He had on a long-sleeved thermal shirt, a plaid wool shirt over it, a jacket over that and old jeans that were worn to nearly white on the knees. Billy thought his own cargo pants were much better than jeans, because they had all those extra pockets where you could put things.

  Filomena swung open the front door while Dad was getting together some tools and stuff he’d tossed into the car under the hatchback. She had on loose-fitting overalls and a turtleneck sweater that was so thick Billy figured she must have dressed in layers, too. Her hair was pulled back into a braid that made it look like a black rope hanging down her back. “Isn’t it a gorgeous day?” she said, smiling so wide Billy felt her smile like a naked lightbulb inside his chest, hot and bright.

  She was right. It was a really nice day, the sky blue the way it rarely was in late November, and the air dry and sharp. It was the kind of day you’d want to go apple picking, although it was too late in the fall for apples. He hoped his father would let him play in the woods a little—without Gracie tagging along. She could really ruin a guy’s time in the woods.

  Filomena turned from him and Gracie to his father. Billy noticed that the way she looked at Dad wasn’t the way she looked at him and Gracie. Her smile for Dad was different. It was a little softer or something. When Dad looked at her he seemed different, too—less sure of himself, but kind of hopeful, as if he thought she might give him a slice of pie.

  For some reason, the way they stared at each other made Billy feel good and bad at once, like something could go really right or really wrong between them.

  “I’ve got the paint and brushes out back,” she said. “And I’ve got some old sheets you can use as drop cloths if you need them. My mother had everything inside the house covered with drop cloths.”

  Billy remembered all those white cloths. They’d resembled ghosts lounging on the furniture.

  “And I was thinking—” she finally turned to Billy and Gracie “—maybe the kids could help me bake some cookies.”

  “Yeah!” Gracie shrieked. She shrieked just as loudly when she was happy as when she was angry. He wished she had a volume dial so he could turn it down.

  He didn’t want to help bake cookies. He’d eat them, sure, but he didn’t want to hang out in the kitchen with Gracie and Filomena. It wasn’t that he had anything against baking—it could be fun, especially if you were baking something like cookies, where there might be a bowl to lick, or icing or chips or sprinkles. But he’d been grounded all week because he’d climbed out his window, and to have to spend Saturday cooped up inside with Gracie…“Can I help you, Daddy?” he asked.

  His father grinned as if he thought Billy had chosen to help paint the porch because he wanted to, not because he was trying to avoid getting stuck in the kitchen with his baby sister. “Sure. Follow me.”

  Billy trooped around the house with his father. He knew where the back porch was; he’d climbed on it and tried to peek through the windows, and the Sunday afternoon Gracie had followed him there she’d tried
to peek through the windows, too. Whatever had been blocking them on the inside was gone, and Billy could now see the kitchen through them. It wasn’t like his kitchen, or his friends’. The oven wasn’t built into a wall but stood on the floor, and the cabinets had glass in the doors so you could see right through them, and all the appliances—the stove, the refrigerator, the dishwasher—were white. The floor was a black-and-white checkerboard of tiles, and a long table stood in the middle of the room, with tall wooden chairs around it.

  Billy bet the room smelled like apples. Or maybe he was just imagining everything smelling like apples because it was that kind of day.

  “So what are we supposed to do?” he asked.

  His father tossed him a pair of work gloves. “These’ll probably be too big on you, but I want you to protect your hands,” he said. “What we’re going to do is take these scrapers—” he handed Billy a flat-edged tool that looked like a short-handled spatula “—and rub them along the boards like this.” He put on a pair of canvas-and-leather gloves, knelt down on the porch and ran the edge of the tool down the board. It peeled loose chips of paint off the wood.

  “We’re scraping off the paint?”

  “Not all of it. Just whatever is loose enough to come off. You don’t have to use much pressure. Why don’t you give it a try?”

  Billy slid his hands into the gloves. They were way too big, and they held the shape of the hands that had been in them before. Dad’s hands, probably. Billy’s fingers felt as if he’d slid them inside warm, round tubes, and the gloves swam around his palms. But he could still hold the scraper tool.

  He knelt down on the porch and rubbed the scraper along a board. Some of the paint flaked right off. Some of it stuck on hard. “Like that?”

  “Exactly like that,” Dad said. “But you know what? Why don’t we do this systematically. Start right at the edge—” he pointed to one side of the porch “—and work your way across. Then when you’ve got a bit done, I’ll follow with the sandpaper.”