a brilliant dancer, the other a brilliant musician, but Anthony had been selfish, dishonest, and in the end cowardly.
She had never known a man more generous, a man kinder than Spence. He was compassionate and honest. Or was that her heart talking? To be sure. But the heart, she thought, didn’t come with a guarantee like a mechanical toy. Every day she was with him, she fell deeper and deeper in love. So much in love, she thought, that there were moments, terrifying moments, when she wanted to toss aside everything and tell him.
She had offered her heart to a man before, a heart pure and fragile. When it had been given back to her, it had been scarred.
No, there were no guarantees.
How could she dare risk that again? Even knowing that what was happening to her now was different, very different from what had happened to the young girl of seventeen, how could she possibly take the chance of leaving herself open again to that kind of pain and humiliation?
Things were better as they were, she assured herself. They were two adults, enjoying each other. And they were friends.
Taking the rose out of its vase, she stroked it along her cheek. It was a pity that she and her friend could only find a few scattered hours to be alone. There was a child to consider, then there were schedules and responsibilities. But in those hours when her friend became her lover, she knew the true meaning of bliss.
Bringing herself back, she slipped the flower into the vase and shifted her concentration to her studies. Within five minutes the phone rang.
“Good morning, Fun House.”
“Good morning, businessperson.”
“Mama!”
“So, you are busy or you have a moment to talk to your mother?”
Natasha cradled the phone in both hands, loving the sound of her mother’s voice. “Of course I have a moment. All the moments you like.”
“I wondered, since you have not called me in two weeks.”
“I’m sorry.” For two weeks a man had been the center of her life. But she could hardly tell that to her mother. “How are you and Papa and everyone?”
“Papa and me and everyone are good. Papa gets a raise.”
“Wonderful.”
“Mikhail doesn’t see the Italian girl anymore.” Nadia gave thanks in Ukrainian and made Natasha laugh. “Alex, he sees all the girls. Smart boy, my Alex. And Rachel has time for nothing but her studies. What of Natasha?”
“Natasha is fine. I’m eating well and getting plenty of sleep,” she added before Nadia could ask.
“Good. And your store?”
“We’re about to get ready for Christmas, and I expect a better year than last.”
“I want you to stop sending your money.”
“I want you to stop worrying about your children.”
Nadia’s sigh made Natasha smile. It was an old argument. “You are a very stubborn woman.”
“Like my mama.”
That was true enough, and Nadia clearly didn’t intend to concede. “We will talk about this when you come for Thanksgiving.”
Thanksgiving, Natasha thought. How could she have forgotten? Clamping the receiver between ear and shoulder, she flipped through her calendar. It was less than two weeks away. “I can’t argue with my mother on Thanksgiving.” Natasha made a note for herself to call the train station. “I’ll be up late Wednesday evening. I’ll bring the wine.”
“You bring yourself.”
“Myself and the wine.” Natasha scribbled another note to herself. It was a difficult time to take off, but she had never missed—and would never miss—a holiday at home. “I’ll be so glad to see all of you again.”
“Maybe you bring a friend.”
It was another old routine, but this time, for the first time, Natasha hesitated. No, she told herself with a shake of her head. Why would Spence want to spend Thanksgiving in Brooklyn?
“Natasha?” Nadia’s well-honed instincts had obviously picked up her daughter’s mental debate. “You have friend?”
“Of course. I have a lot of friends.”
“Don’t be smart with your mama. Who is he?”
“He’s no one.” Then she rolled her eyes as Nadia began tossing out questions. “All right, all right. He’s a professor at the college, a widower,” she added. “With a little girl. I was just thinking they might like company for the holiday, that’s all.”
“Ah.”
“Don’t give me that significant ah, Mama. He’s a friend, and I’m very fond of the little girl.”
“How long you know him?”
“They just moved here late this summer. I’m taking one of his courses, and the little girl comes in the shop sometimes.” It was all true, she thought. Not all the truth, but all true. She hoped her tone was careless. “If I get around to it, I might ask him if he’d like to come up.”
“The little girl, she can sleep with you and Rachel.”
“Yes, if—”
“The professor, he can take Alex’s room. Alex can sleep on the couch.”
“He may already have plans.”
“You ask.”
“All right. If it comes up.”
“You ask,” Nadia repeated. “Now go back to work.”
“Yes, Mama. I love you.”
Now she’d done it, Natasha thought as she hung up. She could almost see her mother standing beside the rickety telephone table and rubbing her hands together.
What would he think of her family, and they of him? Would he enjoy a big, rowdy meal? She thought of the first dinner they had shared, the elegant table, the quiet, discreet service. He probably has plans anyway, Natasha decided. It just wasn’t something she was going to worry about.
Twenty minutes later the phone ran again. It was probably her mother, Natasha thought, calling with a dozen questions about this “friend.” Braced, Natasha picked up the receiver. “Good morning, Fun House.”
“Natasha.”
“Spence?” Automatically she checked her watch. “Why aren’t you at the university? Are you sick?”
“No. No. I came home between classes. I’ve got about an hour. I need you to come.”
“To your house?” There was an urgency in his voice, but it had nothing to do with disaster and everything to do with excitement. “Why? What is it?”
“Just come, will you? It’s nothing I can explain. I have to show you. Please.”
“Yes, all right. Are you sure you’re not sick?”
“No.” She heard his laugh and relaxed. “No, I’m not sick. I’ve never felt better. Hurry up, will you?”
“Ten minutes.” Natasha snatched up her coat. He’d sounded different. Happy? No, elated, ecstatic. What did a man have to be ecstatic about in the middle of the morning? Perhaps he was sick. Pulling on her gloves, she dashed into the shop.
“Annie, I have to—” She stopped, blinked, then stared at the image of Annie being kissed, soundly, by Terry Maynard. “I…excuse me.”
“Oh, Tash, Terry just… Well, he…” Annie blew the hair out of her eyes and grinned foolishly. “Are you going out?”
“Yes, I have to see someone.” She