Private Scandals

used—or seen—for years. Some lights, some balls, it’ll look fine.”
    “And plenty of yellow ribbons,” she said, thinking of Finn. “Thanks, Jeff.”
    “Everything’s going to be okay, Deanna.” He put a hand on her shoulder, gave it a quick, shy squeeze. “Don’t worry so much.”
    “You’re right.” She pressed her hand on top of his. “Absolutely right. Let’s get the rest of the crew in here and decorate this baby.”
     
    Deanna worked throughout the holidays with the plastic tree glowing behind her. By juggling appointments and putting in three eighteen-hour days, she made time for a frantic, twenty-four-hour trip home over Christmas. She returned to Chicago’s bitter cold on the last plane on Boxing Day.
    Loaded down with luggage, gifts and tins of cookies from Topeka, she unlocked her apartment. The first thing she saw was the plain white envelope on the rug, just inside. Uneasy, she set her bags aside. It didn’t surprise her to find a single sheet in the envelope, or to see the bold red type.
    Merry Christmas, Deanna.
I love watching you every day.
I love watching you.
I love you.
    Weird, she mused, but harmless considering some of the bizarre mail that had come her way since August. She stuffed the note in her pocket, and she’d barely flipped the lock back in place when a knock sounded on the other side of the door. She tugged off her wool cap with one hand, opened the door with the other.
    “Marshall.”
    His Burberry coat was neatly folded over his arm. “Deanna, hasn’t this gone on long enough? You haven’t answered any of my calls.”
    “There’s nothing going on at all. Marshall, I just this minute got back into town. I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I’m not in the mood for a civilized discussion.”
    “If I can swallow my pride enough to come here, the least you can do is ask me in.”
    “Your pride?” She felt her temper rise. A bad sign, she knew, when only a few words had been exchanged. “Fine. Come in.”
    He glanced at her bags as he stepped through the door. “You went home for Christmas, then?”
    “That’s right.”
    He laid his coat over the back of a chair. “And your family’s well?”
    “Hale and hearty, Marshall, and I’m not in the mood for small talk. If you have something to say, say it.”
    “I don’t believe this is something we can resolve until we sit down and talk it through.” He gestured to the sofa. “Please.”
    She shrugged out of her coat and took a chair instead. She linked her hands firmly in her lap and waited.
    “The fact that you’re still angry with me proves that there’s an emotional investment between us.” He sat, resting hishands on his knees. “I realized that trying to resolve things right after the incident was a mistake.”
    “The incident? Is that what we’re calling it?”
    “Because,” he continued, calmly, “emotions, on both sides, were running too close to the surface, making it difficult to compromise and vent constructively.”
    “I rarely vent constructively.” She smiled then, but her eyes were hot. “I don’t suppose we got to know each other well enough for you to realize that under certain circumstances, I have a nasty temper.”
    “I understand.” He was pleased, very pleased that they were communicating again. “You see, Deanna, I believe part of our difficulties stemmed from the fact that we didn’t know each other as well as we should have. We share the blame there, but it’s a very human, very natural inclination to show only your best sides when developing a relationship.”
    She had to take a deep breath, had to school herself to remain seated when the urge to spring up and strike out was churning inside her. “You want to share the blame for that, fine—particularly since I have no intention of ever moving beyond that stage with you.”
    “Deanna. If you’ll be honest, you’ll admit that we were creating something special between us.” As a good therapist, he kept his eyes steady on hers, his voice mild and soothing. “A meeting of intellects, of tastes.”
    “Oh, I think our meeting of intellects and tastes took a sharp division when I walked in and found you and Angela groping each other. Tell me, Marshall, did you have the brochures for our proposed Hawaiian tryst in your jacket pocket at the time?”
    His color rose. “I have apologized repeatedly for that lapse.”
    “Now it’s a lapse. Before it was an incident. Let me give you my term for it, Marshall. I