So she did, closing the door to the office as she sat down at the desk across from Stan. It worked, closing the door. Her office and the manuscript and the brown-haired man with soft dark eyes in front of her honestly diverted her attention. She settled back, tried to relax, and once she began talking, the tensions dissolved like ice crystals in warm water.
Stan didn’t even know, she realized, what the manuscript was about. Fifteen minutes slid to twenty, then to a half hour. She had to explain the different kinds of translating problems she would encounter and the hesitation she felt in doing something of this nature. Anna would have to make the decision whether she wanted Lorna to deliver a word-for-word translation or render the story less literally but with the flavor and texture of the original. A too-free translation could destroy a manuscript, change its meaning and distort its tone, and yet word-for-word translations could do the same thing, because of the subtle nuances of language, the different idioms and mind-sets of separate cultures. “It wouldn’t matter, Stan, if this were going to be something just for you and your family. But I had no idea your mother was such a literate woman. I think she’s terrific. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. But if she wants to sell the story-”
“I don’t see that there’s any problem,” Stan said frankly. “Lorna, I trust you. There’s no question that my mother feels the same way.”
Lorna hesitated. “That’s kind of you, but you hardly know me.”
“We spent four hours with you last Saturday. I don’t consider myself a poor judge of character. And from everything you’ve been saying, I would guess you’ll be conscientious to a fault.”
She shook her head. “All I’m suggesting is that I give the manuscript to someone else-one of the professors at the U of M whom my father used to know-to get his advice. Then, if he agrees with what I think, I could bring that viewpoint back to your mother.”
The half hour became a full hour before Lorna eventually stood up. Despite the success of the conference, her nerves were on edge. On the one hand, Stan was a living ego boost. He had shown the slightest hesitation at her disheveled appearance, then he gave a faint smile as if he accepted her choice of working attire. He seemed to think that everything she said was fine. Yet to be so thoroughly accepted… Well, it was impossible to feel uncomfortable around him, but to some extent she felt a little irritated. A man of forty should not have such faith in a total stranger, and he’d worked awfully hard to give the impression that they were friends idly mulling over a problem together, rather than two people working out a business arrangement. Finally, Lorna opened the door and ushered him out of her office.
“All right, then,” Stan said easily. “You talk to your friend about the manuscript, and come to dinner on Saturday night.”
“That would be fine,” she agreed. Her smile radiated all the relief she felt at having coaxed him into a more professional judgment of her work. Her smile hovered, though, as she spotted Matthew and Johnny coming in the front door. Matthew was carrying a large, flat white box; the aroma of pizza wafted to Lorna’s nostrils. Matthew glanced up, his eyes stopping first on her, then on Stan, and the muscle in his cheek suddenly worked like a tiny little pulse.
“I’ll be looking forward to seeing you again, Lorna. Should we say seven, or would you rather make it earlier?” Stan was smiling, putting on his coat. Then he turned around as if he just realized there was someone else there. His eyes went first to Matthew and then back to Lorna.
“Stan, this is Matthew Whitaker. Matthew, Stan Valicheck. And this is Johnny.” Lorna rested her hands on her son’s shoulders.
Stan relaxed the moment he heard Matthew’s last name. Lorna could imagine the wheels turning in his head; visiting rights for estranged fathers were common in today’s society. Awkward, perhaps, but a different problem entirely than if he’d judged Matthew competition. He acknowledged Matthew with a nod, but didn’t hesitate to offer a hand to Johnny. “Your mother was telling me about you. And I was telling her that we have horses. I told her you’re welcome to come with her, if you think you’d like to see the stables.”
“Gee, I sure would,” Johnny breathed, his eyes sparkling as he silently questioned his mother.
“We may, sometime,” Lorna hedged.
“Well, fine, then.” Stan grabbed his coat and put his hand on the doorknob. “Seven on Saturday then, Lorna?”
“Yes.”
As the door closed, Lorna pasted a brilliant smile on her face, pretended Matthew’s eyes weren’t boring into hers in brooding silence and picked up the flat white box. “You brought pizza, you darlings! I haven’t been this hungry in an age. Thank you, Matthew!”
Chapter 8
Lorna took a small, delicate nibble of the pizza, failing to notice that a long strand of mozzarella cheese was still attached to the second pizza triangle on her plate. The gooey rope refused to break, just stretched on and on as Lorna tried to pull it free. It came loose finally, along with all the rest of the cheese on the slice. Not exactly a graceful business, eating pizza.
She swallowed and searched for a napkin. There was none. All of the napkins had been spoken for by Matthew and Johnny, both of whom were devouring their pizza slices without the slightest anxiety, while drawing diagrams of fission and fusion on their napkins. She got up and washed her hands at the sink, knowing she couldn’t eat another bite.
“Got a napkin, Mom?” Johnny asked absently.
He needed the napkin to draw a rocket on, for some unknown reason. Ah, fission.
Not Lorna’s forte. She leaned back against the counter drying her hands with a dish towel. Her stomach was doing cartwheels. Matthew sat there all cool and collected…and every word of his conversation so far had been directed at Johnny.
Somewhere beneath a solid layer of nerves, anger was gradually building up in her…or was it fear? She knew he’d drawn the wrong conclusions about Stan. She just knew…
The doorbell rang. Lorna was heartily sick of the sound. Normally, no one rang the bell; Freda and Brian just walked in. Neither man nor boy looked up, and Lorna tossed the dish towel on the counter and stalked out of the kitchen. Never, she thought, never was she going to get close to another man who judged her without a trial, who became jealous and suspicious before he even gave trust a chance. He could at least have asked her…
You asked for it. You wanted to believe things that couldn’t be true. Matthew is still a Whitaker… Her head aching abominably, she pulled open the front door, and promptly frowned. “Mr. Baker?”
Her neighbor from across the street did not make a habit of calling. In fact, they were barely on speaking terms from the time a year ago when Lorna had called the police about a raucous party at Baker’s house. A little noise was fine to welcome in the New Year, but she’d been frightened; there’d been bottles thrown in the street, and the burly revelers had been knocking on doors at four in the morning.
“I’m here to talk about that brat of yours,” the man said angrily, and stepped in, furiously stomping the snow from his feet.
“I beg your pardon?” She stared at him, unconsciously taking a protective step back when he put both hands on his hips. A full head taller than she was, R. A. Baker had a belly to rival Santa’s, but nothing of the cheerful temperament. Brown hair bushed around his ears below a bald patch on his crown; mud-brown eyes were set close together in thick, sluggish features. Normally. At the moment, his face was florid with rage, and his eyes were almost obsidian.
“That damn kid of yours put a rock through the picture window in my living room!”