Free Angels at Christmas by Debbie Macomber Page B

with her, his heart ached for a life that was dead to him. He grieved for the innocents they’d once been, he and his mother. She’d taken one path since the divorce and he’d taken another. Hatred for his father and for Aimee consumed him. He wanted them to suffer, wanted them to rot in hell for all the pain they’d caused.
    While his mother chose to forgive and forget, he choseto remember every detail, every incident, every minute of their treachery. In retrospect, he realized Aimee had been interested in his father all along. He’d never been anything more than the means to an end.
    â€œI’ll take whatever time you have for me,” his mother said in the complacent voice that always perturbed him. “Oh,” she said, slipping her arm around his waist. “I have a painting I want you to look at one day soon.”
    â€œAnother landscape?” Without her knowledge, he’d purchased several of her pieces, displayed under whatever name she used. Mary Something? He couldn’t remember at the moment. She refused his financial help, but what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
    â€œNot this time,” she said, then softly added, “This time I painted something entirely different.”

Seven
    â€œY ou don’t know how good it is to see you!” Marta Rosenberg greeted Anne, throwing her arms wide. The hotel foyer was dominated by a fifteen-foot-tall Christmas tree decorated with huge shiny red balls and large gold bows. Plush leather chairs and mahogany tables created an intimate atmosphere despite the openness of the room.
    Anne hugged her friend. It’d been years since they’d last visited. Nearly ten if she recalled correctly. Burton had taken a business trip to New York and Anne had accompanied him. They’d gone to a show on Broadway, gotten together with old friends and strolled through Central Park holding hands. She and Marta had met for drinks one afternoon, gossiping and laughing like the college girls they’d once been. That was long before Aimee, long before the divorce.
    A familiar ache stabbed Anne close to her heart. She made an effort to ignore it; she wouldn’t allow her loss to taint this reunion.
    â€œYou look marvelous,” Marta said, stepping back to get a better view. “What have you been up to?”
    Anne laughed off her old friend’s praise. “I spent mostof the afternoon buying Christmas cards and wrap—after I had lunch with Roy. I swear Scrooge has more Christmas spirit than my son.” Her elegant white suit was left over from her old life. These days, she was most comfortable in jeans and an oil-smeared cotton shirt.
    Marta was blond and tanned and she dressed strictly in black, no matter what the season. It was a New York thing, Anne figured. Her friend’s hair haphazardly framed her face, but Anne knew there was nothing haphazard about it. She looked chic, rich, sophisticated, and her world seemed a million miles from the one that had become Anne’s.
    â€œSpeaking of Roy,” Marta said as she led the way into the dining room. “I understand he’s making quite a name for himself.”
    â€œI’m very proud of what he’s accomplished, but I worry about him.” She didn’t elaborate and thankfully Marta didn’t question her. Despite her determination to enjoy this evening, Anne’s thoughts went back to the lunch with Roy. He seemed preoccupied, but when she’d asked him about it, he’d brushed aside her concern. He so rarely permitted her any glimpses into his life; he’d closed himself off from her, the same way he’d shut out everyone else.
    Marta announced her name to the maître d’, and they were immediately seated. The man handed Anne a leather-encased menu, and with more ceremony than necessary, draped the white linen napkin on her lap.
    A waiter came for their drink order, and both Anne and Marta requested a glass