Love, Accidentally Read Free Page B

heard a faint snapping sound and Corrine taking a quick, deep inhalation. Was she smoking? “Look, every couple has problems, right?”
    After eighteen months of marriage? Ilsa wondered, but she only said, “Sure.”
    “Bruce and I need a little time alone,” Corrine said. “He’s been so busy at work, and we’re both feeling pressured about money since we bought the house. I thought if we stayed here, just the two of us . . .”
    “Do you want me to come over?” Ilsa offered. She sat down on her bed, next to the open suitcase she’d been in the middle of packing. “Or we can meet somewhere and talk?”
    Corrine exhaled slowly, and Ilsa pictured a gray cloud escaping from her lips. She’d never seen Corrine smoke. What other secrets did her sister have?
    “No,” Corrine said. “But thanks. I— Look, I’ve got to go call Mom and Dad and let them know. Everything’s fine, really. I’ll see you when you get back, okay?”
    “Sure,” Ilsa said. She heard Corrine hang up, but she kept holding on to the phone receiver.

     
    IT FELT STRANGE not to have Corrine and Bruce home for Christmas, but Ilsa was so distracted by the rituals of the holiday—and, to tell the truth, so swept up by Grif—that she tucked her worries into the back of her mind. She’d see Corrine as soon as she returned to L.A., she told herself as she and Grif helped trim the tree, ate obscene amounts of sugar cookies, and ran to the mall for last-minute gifts.
    It was easy to revel in the way her parents assessed Grif, because seeing him through their eyes made Ilsa fall even more deeply in love with him. She adored the way he pulled out her chair at dinner—good manners were so ingrained in him that they’d become an unconscious habit—and how comfortable he was sprawled on the living room sofa next to her dad, a Budweiser in hand, as they watched a ball game. Her parents had put Grif up in Corrine’s room, since her dad was old-fashioned that way, but late at night, Grif snuck into Ilsa’s room and took her by the hand and led her down into the basement rec room, where they made love on an old futon.
    They never talked during those midnight interludes—not a single word—but they shook with silent laughter as Grif tried to squeeze his six-foot-two frame onto the little futon. One night he fell asleep half on top of her but with one arm and leg dangling onto the floor, and she just lay there, running her fingers through his hair, thinking she’d never been this happy.
    “Let’s go for a walk,” Grif suggested on Christmas Eve. They’d already eaten an early dinner, and her parents had popped over to a neighbor’s open house.
    “No!” Ilsa protested. “It’s freezing!”
    “My L.A. girl is getting spoiled,” Grif teased, grabbing her up in a hug and tickling her ribs until she squealed. “Didn’t you used to have to walk miles in the snow to school every day?”
    “At least ten miles,” she said. “Snow makes everything multiply, kind of like dog years.”
    He grabbed her coat off the banister and tossed it at her. “I’ll keep you warm, babe. Be back in a second.”
    When he returned, he was carrying a stainless-steel thermos. She took the first sip as they stepped outside. Instantly, frost pinched her cheeks and nose, but then the brandy sent a trail of warmth through her throat and chest. They walked down a few blocks and across a street until they came to a park with a wide, open field.
    “Come on,” Grif said, and he led her into the middle of the field, their boots kicking a path through the snow.
    “The stars don’t look like this in Los Angeles,” Ilsa said, tilting her head back and staring up into the brilliantly clear night sky. “This was the field where I used to come when I was a kid, to lie on the grass and watch fireflies at night. I told you that, didn’t I? There seemed to be thousands of them. It always felt magical here.”
    Grif didn’t say anything, and after a moment, she looked