always beat him,” Freddie told her. “Always, always.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I wouldn’t want anyone I know to be eaten by the Beta Monster.”
“He just made it up,” JoBeth said wisely. “Dr. Kimball makes things up real good.”
“Yes, I know.”
“JoBeth’s going to stay for dinner, too. You’re going to be Daddy’s guest and she’s going to be mine. You get to have seconds first.”
“That’s very polite.” She bent to kiss Freddie’s cheeks, then JoBeth’s. “How is your mama?”
“She’s going to have a baby.” JoBeth screwed up her face and shrugged her shoulders.
“I heard.” Natasha smoothed JoBeth’s hair. “Are you taking care of her?”
“She doesn’t get sick in the mornings anymore, but Daddy says she’ll be fat soon.”
Miserably envious, Freddie shifted from one foot to the other. “Let’s go up to my room,” she told JoBeth. “We can play with the kittens.”
“You will wash your hands and faces,” Vera told them as she came in with the ice bucket and glasses. “Then you will come down to dinner, walking like ladies, not running like elephants.” She nodded to Spence. “Miss Stanislaski brought champagne.”
“Thank you, Vera.” Belatedly he remembered to remove his helmet.
“Dinner in fifteen minutes,” she stated, then went out.
“Now she knows I have designs on you,” Natasha muttered. “And is certain I’m after your great wealth.”
With a laugh, he pried the cork free. “That’s all right, I know you’re only after my body.” Wine frothed to the lip of the glasses, then receded.
“I like it very much. Your body.” With a smile she accepted the flute of champagne.
“Then maybe you’d like to enjoy it later.” He touched the rim of his glass to hers. “Freddie twisted my arm and got me to agree to a sleep-over at the Rileys’. So I don’t feel left out, maybe I can stay with you tonight. All night.”
Natasha took her first sip of wine, letting the taste explode on her tongue. “Yes,” she said, and smiled at him.
CHAPTER NINE
Natasha watched the shadows dancing from the lights the candles tossed around the room. Soothing, they played over the curtains, the top rung of the old ladder-back chair in the corner, over the coxcomb she had impulsively slipped into an empty milk bottle and set on her dresser. Her room, she thought. It had always been very much hers. Until…
With a half sigh she let her hand rest on Spence’s heart.
It was no longer quiet; the wind had risen to toss a late, cold rain against the panes. Outside it was a chilled, gusty night that promised a chilled, frosty morning. Winter often came early to the little town snuggled in the foothills of the Blue Ridge. But she was warm, beautifully warm, in Spence’s arms.
The silence between them was easy, as the loving had been. Curled close, they lay still, content to let the hours pass, one lazy second at a time. Each of them quietly celebrated the knowledge that in the morning they wouldn’t wake alone. His hand skimmed over her thigh, her hip, until it linked with hers.
There was music playing inside her head—the song he had given her that morning. She knew she would remember each note, each chord, for the rest of her life. And it was only the beginning for him, or a new beginning. The idea of that delighted her. In the years to come she would hear his music and remember the time they had had together. On hearing it she would celebrate again, even if his music took him away.
Still, she had to ask.
“Will you go back to New York?”
He brushed his lips through her hair. “Why?”
“You’re composing again.” She could imagine him there, in evening dress, attending the opening of his own symphony.
“I don’t need to be in New York to compose. And if I did, there are more reasons to stay here.”
“Freddie.”
“Yes, there’s Freddie. And there’s you.”
Her restless movement rustled the sheets. She could see him after the symphony at some small intimate party, the Rainbow Room perhaps, or a private club. He would be dancing with a beautiful woman.
“The New York you lived in is different from mine.”
“I imagine.” He wondered why that should matter to her. “Do you ever think of going back?”
“To live, no. But to visit.” It was silly, she thought, to be nervous about asking such a simple thing. “My mother called me today.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes. She only called to remind me about Thanksgiving. I’d almost forgotten. Every year we have a big dinner and eat too much. Do you go home for the holiday?”
“I am home.”
“I mean to your family.” She shifted to watch his face.
“I only have Freddie. And Nina,” he added. “She always goes out to the Waldorf.”
“Your parents. I’ve never asked you if you still have them, or where they live.”
“They’re in Cannes.” Or was it Monte Carlo? It occurred to him suddenly that he didn’t know for certain. The ties there were loose, comfortably so for everyone involved.
“Won’t they come back for the holidays?”
“They never come to New York in the winter.”
“Oh.” Try as she might, she couldn’t picture the holidays without family.
“We never ate at home on Thanksgiving. We always went out, were usually traveling.” His memories of his childhood were more of places than people, more of music than words. “When I was married to Angela, we usually met friends at a restaurant and went to the theater.”
“But—” She caught herself and fell silent.
“But what?”
“Once you had Freddie.”
“Nothing changed.” He shifted onto his back to stare at the ceiling. He’d wanted to tell her about his marriage, about himself—the man he had been—but had put it off. For too long, he reflected. How could he expect to build, when he had yet to clear away the emotional rubble of his past? “I’ve never explained to you about Angela.”
“It’s not necessary.” She took his hand again. She’d wanted to invite him to a meal, not dredge up old ghosts.
“It
