She hated these late night schedules. Whenever she had to work past nine, she always gave Philip permission to stay up until she got home. But he would be in his pajamas, and she’d get to spend at best ten minutes with him, hearing about his day at school, checking to make sure he’d completed his homework and maybe reading a book with him, before she’d have to send him to bed. If she let him stay up any later, he’d fall asleep in class the following day.
She wanted to make time for Jesse, too. She owed herself the opportunity to develop a relationship with a man. She couldn’t let her life revolve entirely around work and Philip. She was a person, too, with her own needs.
With another groan, she unlocked her car and started the engine. “That’s a swell thought,” she muttered, wondering whether she’d read it in some magazine article or book on self-actualization. The people who preached that drivel about the importance of taking care of your own needs obviously didn’t have to contend with the realities of day-to-day living. Robin was a mother first, a breadwinner second. Social butterfly ranked way down there at the bottom of the list, below toilet-scrubber, car-washer and checkbook-balancer.
And yet... For a brief, mystifying moment Sunday night, lost in the awesome power of Jesse’s lovemaking, she had forgotten about being a mother, a breadwinner, and all the rest of it. She had been only a woman, a mature, sensual woman reveling in the magic that mature, sensual women were supposed to experience with like-minded men. For those few minutes, nothing had been important but her own physical awakening, her longing...her needs.
All right, so she had needs. Big deal. Ever since she’d made a conscious decision to become a mother, she had voluntarily put her own needs on hold. Philip’s needs came first. Right now, he needed his mother, his home, a magnificent Christmas. And that took precedence over anything Robin might want to pursue with a man.
Except...except that for those few damnably glorious minutes, when she’d gazed up into Jesse’s face, when she’d felt his body moving passionately against hers... “Don’t even think about it,” she cautioned herself. “If he’s really interested in you, he’ll accept your priorities.”
Fat chance of that, too, she thought glumly. Any woman whose priorities had Christmas with her little boy coming before a love affair couldn’t hope to hold an atheist’s interest for long.
Philip was romping around the living room in his pajamas when Robin got home. “Hey, Mom!” he bellowed, racing to her and giving her a hug. “I got a hundred on my spelling test, and Ms. Becker wrote ‘Good job’ on it, with a big explanation point.”
“Exclamation point,” Robin corrected him, returning his hug. “That’s wonderful, Phil. I’m very proud of you.”
“Yeah, well, she wasn’t too boring today. And a bunch of us decided we’ve got to give Cookie Monster a Christmas present. Like, maybe, a big box of cookies. Will you bake some for him?”
Robin pulled off her coat and hung it in the closet. “If I’m going to go to all the trouble of baking cookies, I’m sure not going to let you feed them to a snake.”
“On Gleek, mommies bake cookies for snakes all the time,” Philip said.
“Then send Cookie Monster to Gleek.”
“And—oh, yeah! We got a package in the mail from Grandma and Grandpa Greer,” Philip erupted. “Mrs. O’Leary said it was probably Christmas presents and I couldn’t open it up.”
“She’s right,” Robin said. “I’ll open it, and if it’s presents, they’ll go right under the tree and stay there until the big day.”
“Aww!”
“It’s way past your bedtime, fella,” Robin said, giving Philip an affectionate swat on his backside. “How about heading up the stairs while I pay Mrs. O’Leary?”
Once Robin had written a check for Kate and sent her home, she climbed the stairs to Philip’s room. He was seated on his bed, his blond hair tousled and his pajama bottoms drooping to expose his belly-button. That was the way boys were, Robin reminded herself—they never grew gradually, but instead stayed the same height for months and months, and then shot up two inches in a week. She would have to buy him some new pajamas.
“Where’s your spelling test?” she asked, skirting the bed to reach his desk. She found the exam paper lying on top of his arithmetic workbook. A big red “100” appeared at the top, along with Ms. Becker’s glowing message at the bottom.
Beaming, Robin returned to Philip’s bed and gave her son another hug. “I’m so proud of you.”
He snorted modestly. “It was easy, Mom. I guess I’m just naturally smart.”
“Just last week you were telling me that spelling was dumb,” Robin teased, pulling back the blanket for him. As he lay down, she noticed the gap between his pajama top and bottoms again. He was growing up, both physically and intellectually. No matter how much Robin wanted to make room in her life for Jesse, she would never do it at the expense of missing out on Philip’s daily growth. Go out on dates, become embroiled in an affair, blink, and your son would change on you overnight. Philip’s evolution from a little boy to a not-so-little boy was simply too important to miss. “I love you, Phil,” she whispered, momentarily overcome by sentiment.
“It was just a spelling test,” he said nonchalantly. “Don’t get carried away.”
Laughing, Robin kissed him and shut off the light.
She stole to her bedroom to change into her jeans and sweatshirt, then headed downstairs. The parcel from her former in-laws was sitting on a counter in the kitchen, and she cut it open with a steak knife. Sure enough, it contained two gift-wrapped boxes, both tagged with Philip’s name. Robin was happy that, in spite of the divorce, Philip’s paternal grandparents maintained close ties with him.
After placing the gifts under the tree, she returned to the kitchen to fix herself a light supper. Given how late it was, she didn’t have much of an appetite, and the leftover macaroni and cheese Kate had prepared for Philip and herself hardly looked appealing. Robin wearily opened a can of soup, dumped it into a pot, and set it on the stove. Just as it started to bubble, the telephone rang.
She answered it at once, hoping the bell hadn’t roused Philip. “Hello?”
“Hi, Robin,” said Jesse.
Whatever she’d told him, however inanely she’d babbled in the staff lounge, she obviously hadn’t scared him off—yet. A giddy smile shaped her lips. “Hello, Jesse.”
“There was so much I wanted to tell you today,” he said. “A minute wasn’t enough.”
He already had told her so much today. He had told her that her inexperience didn’t bother him, that she had no reason to apologize for her behavior last night, that all he cared about was “us.” Anything else he might say now would seem trivial in comparison.
But she wasn’t about to stop him. Instead, she shut off the stove, poured the soup into a bowl, and carried it to the table, the phone receiver wedged against her shoulder. “I’m listening,” she prompted him.
“I gave the Navy a lecture on Santa Claus,” he announced.
“What?” She dropped her spoon, splattering drops of soup across the table.
“I told you about my client whose son is in the Navy, didn’t I?”
Robin retrieved her spoon and wiped the splatters from the table with her napkin. “Something about how the Navy was denying him his Christmas leave,” she recalled.
“That’s right. I called up a captain stationed at Newport today and told him that if the Navy believed in Santa Claus, they had to let the boy go home for Christmas.”
“You didn’t!”
“I did. And I think it’s your fault.”
Maybe it was her fault, but he certainly didn’t sound terribly angry. Indeed, he sounded amused. “In that case, have your client pay me instead of you,” she joked.
“This is legal aid, Robin. The clients don’t pay.”
“Oh. Right.” She sipped her soup, pleased by this conversation—pleased that Jesse had felt he had to share his news with her. “What did the Navy say?”
“They asked me to send them a written brief on the matter,” he told her. “What do you think, Robin? If I send them an affidavit on the existence of Santa, are they going to blackmail me with it?”
“It’s possible. But I wouldn’t lose sleep about it.”
His laughter faded. “Seriously, Robin. You know more than I do about how the military functions. Do you think the Navy will bend its rules to accommodate Christmas for this one kid and his mother?”
Had he called her up for legal counsel? Surprised, she lowered her spoon and tucked the receiver more firmly against her chin. “I don’t know. The Navy does things differently from the Army. But there are a few officers here and there who’ve got hearts. It probably depends on whether the captain you spoke to is one of them.”
“Hearts,” Jesse echoed, his tone soft and sincere. “That’s really what it’s all about, isn’t it.”
“What Christmas is about? Of course,” she said. “That’s exactly what it’s about.”
“I don’t have to be converted,” Jesse pointed out good-naturedly. “It’s the Navy that has to be convinced.”
Robin almost blurted out that, of all people, Jesse did have to be converted. But he didn’t, really. He’d already gone Christmas shopping with her and Philip, and helped them to buy a tree, and participated in decorating it. If he hadn’t gotten sick of the holiday by now, then he probably was half the distance to believing in it.
“Well,” she said, “I wish you lots of luck. And your client, too. In her son’s place, if the Navy refused me my leave, I’d go AWOL.”
“Great,” Jesse snorted. “And then Mrs. Selby would be begging me to represent him at his court-martial. Something tells me I shouldn’t have asked you for advice.”
Advice wasn’t why Jesse had called her. Nor had he called her to complain about his challenges at work. He had called her for no other reason than to talk, to include her in his day.
She remembered how she and Ray used to talk this way, back when things were good between them. He would arrive home from work, and she would arrive home from one of the various jobs she’d held before Philip was born, and they’d compare notes, describe moments, chatter about anything that crossed their minds, no matter how inconsequential. For Robin, it had been one of the best things about being married.
And now Jesse was offering her that same companionship. He was presenting himself as a kindred soul with whom she could share a few thoughts at the end of the day. An unexpected sense of wellbeing flooded her, a warmth and contentment she hadn’t experienced in years. “I’m close,” she admitted, startling herself.
“Close to what?” he asked.
“Close to loving you.”
He said nothing for a moment. And then, “I’m glad, Robin. Very glad.”
Chapter Nine
HE CALLED AGAIN Tuesday evening. Robin and Philip were in the kitchen, Philip pasting together a chain composed of red and green construction paper links, and Robin arranging flexible sprigs of pine around the bases of the red candles she planned to display in the living room and dining room windows. She and Philip had already replaced the willow wreath on the front door with the fresh pine wreath and spiraled a long rope of holly and red velvet ribbon around the staircase railing. The tree was lit, and Robin had found an ancient TV special featuring Bing Crosby on a cable channel, and she’d turned the sound up high so they could listen to Crosby singing carols while they worked. Philip had kicked up a small protest about that—he’d wanted to listen to one of their newer Christmas CD’s—but the Crosby special reminded her of her childhood, Christmases with her parents. They might have been living in different houses for different Christmases, but the old holiday specials had offered some continuity. She’d told Philip that Santa loved Bing Crosby and he should learn to love Bing Crosby, too.
“Is it just my imagination,” Jesse asked when Robin answered the phone, “or are Japanese cars small?”
When the phone had begun to ring, she’d hoped that the call would be from Jesse, and she was delighted to hear his voice on the other end. “Hello, Jesse,” she greeted him.
He regaled her for a few minutes with a tale of his fruitless effort to find a suitable new car for himself. “Either the cars they’re making these days are overpriced and underequipped, or I’m too demanding,” he concluded.
“A little of both, probably,” Robin noted affectionately. “Any car you’re thinking of buying has to be bigger than that Mini-Cooper, no matter what country it comes from.”
“True enough,” he said. “About Saturday night—are you free?”
“Yes and no,” she answered. “The problem is, I’ve got to work until five on Saturday, and from noon to five Sunday.”
“That still leaves Saturday evening.”
Robin knew she’d be exhausted after a full day at the store on Saturday. She also knew that she would want to spend the evening with Philip. But that didn’t mean she had to deprive herself of Jesse’s company, too. “Maybe you could come over for dinner,” she said. “I won’t be able to prepare anything too elegant, but—”
“Better yet, why don’t you come to my place for dinner?” Jesse suggested. “After working all day, you shouldn’t have to prepare anything at all. Phil can come along, too, if he’d like.”
Robin didn’t doubt that Philip would like that just fine. “Are you sure that would be all right?” she asked.
“If he likes spaghetti and meatballs, he’s my kind of guest,” Jesse replied. “I’m not exactly a gourmet cook.”
“He loves spaghetti and meatballs.”
“Great. Come over whenever you’re ready after work.”
“It’ll probably be around five-thirty or six,” Robin said. “We’ll see you then.” After hanging up, she went in search of Philip. She found him in the den, switching the TV channel to a police show. “Forget it, fella,” she scolded, twisting the dial back to the Bing Crosby special. “I want to hear Bing and the whole Crosby family sing, ‘We Wish You A Merry Christmas.’”
“He’s dead,” Philip pointed out. “Why should we watch a dead person?”
“We aren’t watching, we’re listening,” Robin said. “And if you want to decorate this house with me, you’d better steer clear of all those violent shows.”
Philip shaped his hand into a make-believe pistol and created an explosive pow sound through his lips. “Okay, Mom,” he said, his imaginary assassination accomplished. “Let’s decorate.”
***
“THERE HE IS AGAIN,” Kirsten whispered to Lisa as the two clerks spied on the handsome dark-haired man in the gray cashmere coat who had just entered Woodleigh’s and was unknowingly standing beneath the mistletoe by the store’s front door.
“Forget it,” Lisa whispered back. “He’s Robin’s.”
Robin suspected that she wasn’t supposed to have overheard their exchange, but how could she help herself when the three of them were crowded behind the counter, bagging merchandise for customers? Not that Jesse was hers, but she knew instinctively that he’d come to Woodleigh’s to see her. She straightened her pinafore, handed her customer a receipt and a bagged package of clove-scented candles, and strode around the counter to greet Jesse.
“I won’t ask for one minute,” he said, grinning at her approach. “This might take two. Can you come outside?”
“Two minutes, huh,” she muttered with pretended dismay, eyeing the frenzied shoppers milling around the store. Her gaze landed on Lisa and Kirsten, who were watching her and Jesse with way too much curiosity, and she decided to let them think Jesse was hers. Slipping her hand through the bend in his elbow, she said, “Two minutes. I’m timing you.”
Laughing, he ushered her out of the store. Parked at the curb, in a no-parking zone, was a sky-blue Honda Civic. He gestured at it with his free arm, then grinned proudly at Robin.
For a minute, she thought she was hallucinating. The last time she’d seen this car, it had been smashed fore and aft, with a splintered w
indshield and a missing bumper. How had Jesse managed to get it repaired? Why had he bothered?
“I bought it this afternoon,” he said, guiding her around the car so she could view it from every angle. “What do you think?”
She shivered as a gust of freezing air assaulted her. Jesse opened the flap of his coat and wrapped it around her, snuggling her against himself. It wasn’t the coat that warmed her, but his body, his nearness. The delectable heat that infused her was nearly enough to melt away her discomfort at the sight of his car.
Nearly enough, but not quite. “Why did you buy a car identical to the one you were driving when you had your accident?” she asked.
“I was looking at new Hondas,” he explained. “But the dealer had some used ones in the lot. I saw this car, and I thought—why not? I was lucky the last time I was in a car like this. I was so lucky I survived with barely a scratch. It’s obviously the right car for me.”
She angled her head back to see his face. The thick collar of his coat rode up beneath her ponytail, soft against the nape of her neck. Jesse smiled down at her, such a sweet, wonderful smile that she couldn’t help mirroring it. “So you believe in luck, is that it?” she teased. “What’s the difference between luck and God, Jesse?”
“I...” He hesitated, sorting through his thoughts. Then his smile grew even more gentle. “I believe that my life was saved by a blue Honda Civic and you. Now I’ve got another blue Honda Civic.”
And you’ve got me, Robin almost said. She curled her arms around his lean torso, trying to ward off the encroaching numbness in her hands. “If it’s the car you want, then congratulations,” she mumbled into his shoulder, hating herself for not declaring that she was willing to be part of the lucky package for him as well. If only he would admit that he did believe in luck, if only he would admit that Robin hadn’t saved his life, if only he would bend that much...
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