Baby, It's Cold Outside

by Jennifer Greene, Merline Lovelace

  Stacy nodded, too moved to speak. The picture Jóna had painted of a depressed, confused Kristján was such a contrast to the strong, confident man she knew. Had Jóna exaggerated to garner sympathy for her brother? Or had Stacy really made such a difference in his life?

  She knew danger lay in expecting another person to fill the holes in one’s life. But was it possible that the right partner—the person, even, that you were meant to be with—could help you find ways to fill those holes yourself?

  She thought of the holes in her own life—the spaces that should have been filled with family and children and the love of a good man. Was Kristján the one who would help her fill those holes?

  BY THE TIME KRISTJÁN reached the sauna, Arni was already waiting for him. Kristján was sure his brother had planned this. Though the accident that had left him paralyzed from the waist down had happened almost twenty years ago, Arni avoided calling attention to his disability, especially around Kristján.

  “From Olympic medalist to sweater model running from the papparazzi,” Arni said when the brothers had exchanged greetings. He shook his head. “How the mighty have fallen.”

  “I’m doing this as a favor for Jóna,” Kristján said, refusing to rise to Arni’s bait.

  “Sure. And I suppose it has its perks.” He stretched his arms over his head, the powerful muscles of his shoulders and chest knotting, in sharp contrast to his withered lower body. “So which one of the models are you sleeping with?” he asked.

  “None of them. Why would you think that?”

  “If it was me, I’d be taking advantage of the situation.” He grinned. “According to the papers, you’re a real playboy these days.”

  “You should know better than to believe everything you read in the papers.”

  “Ah, but they always have pictures—photographs of you and the most attractive starlets and socialites. When you’re tired of them, you should send a few of those beauties my way.”

  Kristján remained silent, remembering a time when their roles had been reversed—when Arni had been the brother all the women flocked to and Kristján the silent onlooker.

  Arni must have been thinking similar thoughts. “Do you remember the time you had a crush on that girl on the ski team, the one who wore the long braids?” he asked. “What was her name?”

  “Greta.” She’d been sixteen, he seventeen, and so much in love he could scarcely sleep or eat.

  “She kept coming over to the house and you thought it was because she was crazy about you, when all along it was me she wanted.” Arni laughed. “I was in a wheelchair and she still preferred me to you.”

  Kristján nodded; the old hurt long since healed, replaced by a different kind of pain when he thought of his brother. Before Arni’s accident, the two had been close; Kristján longed to find a way past Arni’s bitterness, to rekindle the friendship that had meant so much to him. He leaned forward and ladled water onto the stones in the center of the sauna, and steam rose between them, obscuring their vision. For a moment the only sound was the hissing of steam, and the creak of the wood benches as they shifted their bodies. Then Arni’s voice penetrated the fog. “Don’t tell me you’re making it with the American—that little director or whatever she is.”

  Kristján stiffened, but he kept his voice even. “Stacy is the marketing director for the company that plans to sell the sweaters.”

  “You always did like the dark ones. So, are you sleeping with her?”

  “No.” Though not for want of trying.

  “What is wrong with you? All these women ready to give it up for you and you aren’t taking advantage.”

  He couldn’t tell his brother that he was at the point in his life where he wanted more than sex from a woman. For too long almost everything in his life had been transient and temporary, from his address to his relationships. He was ready to stop, to put down roots. He no longer wanted only to go to bed with someone; he wanted to love them and stay with them. Maybe forever.

  “How is Clara?” he asked. Clara was the woman who had stuck by Arni the longest, calming his mood swings and teasing him out of his ill temper.

  “Clara is fine.” All trace of sarcasm and bitterness had vanished from Arni’s voice. “She wants to get married.”

  “You should marry her. She loves you.”

  “And you know all about that, right, Mr. Playboy?”

  “I would marry if I found the right woman. Now that I’m retired from racing, I hope that I will.”

  “You won’t retire. After all these years, racing’s in your blood. I’ll bet you a thousand kronur that when the season starts you’ll be waxing your skis and heading back out there.”

  “No bets,” Kristján said. “I don’t intend to race again.”

  “One medal and you’re done? I don’t believe you. Don’t you know the whole country expects you to go back in four years and do it again? You can’t let them down. You can’t let me down.”

  The words were a knife, sawing at an old, familiar wound. “In four years I’ll be thirty-eight,” he said. “Too old to compete with the teenagers and twenty-year-olds.”

  “That’s just an excuse. People said you were too old this time, too, and you proved them wrong.”

  “I’m tired of that life. I’m ready for something different.”

  “I’m tired,” Arni mimicked in a high-pitched whine. The wood creaked as he dragged himself over on the bench, until he was next to Kristján. “If you don’t care about your countrymen, then think about me. You should go out there and win a medal for me, since I can’t win one for myself.”

  The words sent a mixture of nausea, rage and despair swirling through Kristján. He gripped the edge of the wooden bench until his knuckles ached. “I won my medal for you,” he said. “I told you that when I gave it to you.” The heavy gold medal in its fancy presentation case was somewhere in the house Arni shared with their parents—if Arni hadn’t hurled it into the sea during one of his rages.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t tell the press that. ‘I won this medal for my crippled brother.’ They would have eaten that up. Women would have been throwing themselves at you even worse than they do now. They’d have been begging to sleep with you.”

  “Shut up.” Kristján didn’t raise his voice, but the coldness in the two words cut through the heavy atmosphere inside the sauna.

  “Who are you to tell me to shut up? I taught you everything you know about skiing and racing. I showed you everything that would have made me great, if I’d only had the chance.”

  Kristján stood, so weary that even that simple movement took great effort. “I’m done here,” he said. “Do you need help getting back into your chair?”

  “No, I don’t need your help!” Arni snapped.

  Kristján exited the sauna, but returned seconds later, pushing the lightweight racing chair—a gift he’d sent last year—over to the edge of the bench.

  Arni swore, but hoisted himself into the chair, jerking out of Kristján’s reach. “Leave me alone,” he ordered, and rolled away.

  Kristján stared after his brother’s hunched figure, watching the muscles of his shoulders and arms flex and strain as he powered the wheelchair over the rough walkway.

  When they were children, Kristján had idolized his older brother. Arni had been the fastest, the smartest, the most handsome boy in their neighborhood. Early on, he’d been lauded as one of the best young Icelandic skiers, and had been groomed as a future Olympian. Kristján, not as gifted, had been accepted as part of the team because his brother was there, but Arni drew the lion’s share of attention, winning more races, receiving more praise. Kristján was proud of his brother, and was never happier than once when Arni had won a gold medal at a junior competition, and Kristján had claimed the silver.

  He still had that photograph somewhere: two young teenagers in ski gear, heads close together, medals held aloft. At the time, Kristján had thought it would always be that way, the two of them together, a team that co
uldn’t be beaten.

  Then the accident had happened, when Arni was seventeen, Kristján fifteen. Not a skiing accident, as everyone might have expected, but an automobile accident. A car in which Arni was riding plunged off a cliff. The driver, a boy from their neighborhood, was killed, while Arni’s spine was crushed. He lived, but he would never race again.

  Now he had to sit on the sidelines and cheer as Kristján won the medals. He had to build a different kind of life than the one he’d planned.

  For a long time Kristján had believed he could help his brother. He could allow Arni to live vicariously through him. Even at the Olympics, he had tried to share the experience with his brother, telling Arni that he was racing for both of them. When he’d presented his medal to his brother, they had both wept, and Kristján had told himself it was enough.

  But now he saw it would never be enough. He could not erase Arni’s bitterness and anger over what had happened to him. All his love and goodwill would never make up for the accident and the end of Arni’s dreams. Kristján had to stop trying to live for his brother. He had to start living for himself.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A SECLUDED SECTION OF the pools had been roped off for the photo shoot late that afternoon, closed to the public, including nosy photographers like Lang Kerr. Stacy had seen no sign of the annoying little man, but she was glad the Tourism Commission had arranged for them to have this privacy.

  The orange and gold light of sunset tinted the mists rising from the pools, deepening the blue of the opalescent water. Stefan first shot Kristján and the female models at the edge of the water, posed among the black lava formations. Next, he stood them in water to their waists. Finally, he had them immerse themselves in the water and clicked off a series of shots as they rose, water streaming from their bodies, a god and goddesses rising from the sea.

  “Now I know why Jóna didn’t want to watch. All that heat and salt water is ruining her expensive creations.”

  Stacy turned and was startled to see a handsome young man in a wheelchair rolling toward her. There was something very familiar about the man, though she would have sworn they’d never met. “I’m Arni Gunnarson.” He offered his hand and she shook it, trying hard not to show her surprise at this unexpected meeting.

  “I’m Stacy Bristol,” she said.

  “I know. Kristján and Jóna have both mentioned you.”

  And what did Kristján have to say about me? she wondered. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said. “I’m glad you were able to join your brother and sister at this beautiful place.”

  “They didn’t tell you about the wheelchair, did they?” Arni’s tone of voice told her he’d correctly read her surprised expression. “They always leave out that little detail, as if maybe no one will notice.”

  She didn’t know how to respond to this, so she remained silent.

  Stefan directed Kristján to raise his hands over his head, as if reaching to pluck the dying sun from the sky, while the women draped themselves on either side.

  “Kristján’s done a lot of crazy things in his life, but this has to be the craziest,” Arni said.

  Stacy stiffened at this implied criticism of Kristján. “I believe your sister talked him into modeling as a favor to her,” she said. “He’s actually very good.” Modeling required more than outstanding looks. It required patience, a willingness to follow directions and most of all, a presence in front of the camera. Kristján had all of those, and a knack for looking past the camera lens, as if confronting the viewer herself.

  “Jóna worries Kristján has become a lazy playboy who will only get into trouble,” Arni said. “I told her not to worry. As soon as the next racing season begins he’ll be too busy to get into trouble.”

  “I thought he was giving up racing.”

  Arni shook his head. “He says that now, but I know him. Skiing is in his blood. Besides, what else can he do? He doesn’t have any other talents or education.”

  Stacy could think of a few talents Kristján had demonstrated, though she supposed a killer smile and great kissing technique weren’t in demand in the job market. Still, she thought Arni underestimated his younger brother—and was that a touch of jealousy she detected? “Jóna tells me you’re a computer draftsman,” she said.

  “I won an industry award for my designs last year. But I can’t take any special credit. Design comes naturally for me.”

  “You’re too modest, I’m sure.” She might have said more, but she was distracted by the sight of a soaked Kristján peeling a wet sweater off his torso, revealing rippling abs and a sculpted chest. He was pure male perfection. Even the models, who were used to seeing exceptional men, stopped to stare.

  Kristján seemed oblivious, ducking himself beneath the surface and rising up, raking his hair back, water cascading through his fingers.

  “You should have seen him as a kid,” Arni said. “He was so skinny the other racers called him toothpick. Of course, being a lightweight is a handicap in racing. Heavier racers have gravity in their favor. No one who knew him then ever expected him to have the success he’s had.”

  “Some people have to grow into their talent, I suppose.” She appreciated the glimpse of Kristján as an awkward youth—it made the man he was now less intimidating, though she was sure that wasn’t Arni’s intention.

  Like Kristján, Arni was handsome and charming. But his charm had a hard edge to it that made her uncomfortable. She turned to him. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Gunnarson,” she said. “I really need to confer with my photographer now.”

  “Don’t let me keep you.” He flashed a smile, showing off gleaming teeth. “Maybe I can buy you a drink later.”

  “Thank you.” She hurried away, after the retreating figure of Stefan.

  But before she could catch up with Stefan, Kristján approached. He was still shirtless, the wet denim of his soaked jeans clinging to his muscular thighs like a second skin. “I need to talk to you,” he said.

  “I really have to speak with Stefan,” she protested.

  “Then later. I’m having dinner with my family, but can you meet me here about eight o’clock?”

  “Here? At the pools?”

  “Why not? The pools are very relaxing at night. The darkness and mist—very sexy.”

  The last thing she needed was to be alone in the dark with this man she found so difficult to resist. But as the days passed she was finding it more and more difficult to justify her resistance. So he wasn’t a man she could spend the rest of her life with. Did that mean it was wrong for her to enjoy a few moments of pleasure with him? Would leaving him later really hurt as much as denying herself now?

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll meet you at eight. But I really do have to go now.”

  “I’ll look forward to it. And, Stacy?”

  “Yes?”

  “You don’t have anything to be afraid of from me.”

  She started to argue that she knew that. But she merely shook her head and moved on. Of all the emotions she experienced when she was with Kristján, fear did not figure into the picture. Maybe a little uneasiness about the changes a man like him could bring to her life, but that wasn’t the same as fear. She was cautious, but she certainly wasn’t a coward.

  AT ONE TIME, THE POOLS of the Blue Lagoon had been as familiar to Kristján as the rooms in the house he’d grown up in. The summer after Arni’s accident, the brothers had spent weeks here, Kristján pushing Arni’s chair along the boardwalk, helping him in and out of the water, and trying in every way possible to ease his brother’s suffering and assuage his own guilt. Arni hadn’t yet decided to blame Kristján for his troubles and those weeks here had drawn them even closer. Did Arni even remember that now?

  Arni was the gifted brother, the Olympic hopeful who was supposed to be Iceland’s first medalist. He was supposed to shine while Kristján remained content in his shadow.

  But Kristján wasn’t content. That was his ugly secret and the source of his guilt. The life he
lived now was Arni’s dream, and a constant source of friction between the brothers.

  “Kristján, is that you?” Stacy’s voice, soft and questioning, interrupted his thoughts.

  “I’m here,” he said, and held his hand out to her.

  She ignored the gesture and lowered herself into the pool beside him. “How was dinner?” she asked.

  Dinner had been uncomfortable—Arni communicating in terse sentences only when necessary and Jóna trying to keep the conversation light. “Jóna was in a good mood. She’s delighted with your ideas for advertising her sweaters.”

  “Your brother doesn’t seem very happy.”

  “Arni has his moods.”

  “Is he in pain?”

  “I don’t know. He doesn’t talk about it.”

  He took a step toward her and she deftly moved away. “Why did you want to see me?” she asked.

  “First, tell me what my brother said to you this afternoon.”

  “He didn’t say anything in particular. He was just making conversation.”

  Maybe Arni saved his bitterness for Kristján. Certainly Arni was capable of being most charming, especially to beautiful women. “Did he flirt with you?”

  “Why? Are you jealous?”

  “Yes.”

  His honesty seemed to surprise her. She looked away.

  Kristján decided it was time to change the subject. “The moon is almost full tonight,” he said, looking up at the pale orb that flooded the pools with silvery light.

  “It’s beautiful.” Water lapped against him as she moved closer. “What is wrong with Arni?” she asked. “Why is he in a wheelchair?”

  “He was thrown from a car in which he was a passenger when he was seventeen.” All their lives had changed that summer. “He had just made the Olympic ski team. People were already talking of him winning a medal for Iceland.”

  “How awful for him. And for you.”

  That she would see his suffering in this touched him. “He can’t forgive that I can still ski and he can’t.”