Erika’s mood was as bleak as the rain threatening sky. In her ice blue negligée, she unconsciously struck a pose highlighting her lean long legs. The help was humming “Last Christmas” as she washed the dishes. Thomas watched her with hungry eyes. He turned away angry at himself for still wanting such a craven creature.

Thomas stabbed the tremulous fire and only succeeded in killing it. If I had wanted a fishwife I would have stayed married to Helene, he thought. His knees ached and he felt like the 63 year old man that he was. Under thick lashes Erika watched Thomas not looking at her and tighten her silky robe. Pretending to admire the scenery, she turned her back to the living room. The clatter of the dishwasher being loaded irked her. Erika flicked her platinum hair.

Coming to Aspen for Christmas was a mistake, she thought. At least in New York or LA there was shopping. Erika looked at elegant mountain top lodge, all modern leather furniture, original artwork, chandeliers, fur rugs, live in maid, and shrugged. Sighing she thought of Alexander McQueen vintage purses.

From the kitchen the help was humming “Blue Christmas.” Thomas tossed down the poker and stomped to the bar. He poured a double Scotch and drained it. Hearing his wife sigh he turned to watch her be gorgeous in the moonlight. Over his second double Thomas thought about the first time they’d met at Alexander’s cigar bar.

Erika’s mind flexed from purses to her monthly allowance to their prenup. Grimacing Erika considered how Thomas took judges on golf vacations and was the president of the Bar Association. The kitchen sounds made Erika think of the hard years as a cocktail waitress flirting with old men to pay her rent. She snagged against the curved floor to ceiling window.

Thomas wrapped himself around her from behind. Erika sank into him.

“I’m sorry babydoll. I’ve been so tense with all these civil suits. I snapped at you and terrible things were said. Every podunk D.A. wants to win elections by coming after us. We make drugs not addicts. As if our company is responsible for every junkie hillbilly.”

The crash of glasses thundered from the kitchen.

“Sorry, sir. Sorry, ma’am,” said a thin voice with a heavy Appalachian drawl. “I’ll tote this mess away in a paper poke and get out from under yar hair. So sorry.”

Thomas scrowled. Erika rolled her hips against him smoothing away his irritation. He trailed wet kisses down her neck and untied her robe. The light rain turned to a silvery flurry of snowflakes. The maid cleaned up the glass in silence, turned off the kitchen lights, and walked through the slush to her room over the attached garage. She began to hum “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas,” but stopped in case the guests overheard her.

Erika faced Thomas and allowed her robe to slip to the floor in a sensuous heap. She brushed her lips over his lips and lovingly stroked his balding head. Erika tucked his combover behind his ear.

“Oh sugar you never have to say you’re sorry.”