A Place Called Home Page 33

  Mitch found Thea’s hand and slipped his fingers through hers. “Did you tell him you love him?”

  Thea nodded again. “I wish he hadn’t been so surprised.” There was a small catch in her voice. “Both of us are late to the realization that there’s nothing about love that has to be earned.”

  Mitch smiled. “Figured that out, did you?”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “Good.” He gave her hand a little squeeze. “Think you can help me to bed?”

  “Sure.” She raised her head and kissed him on the corner of the mouth. “But you’re not getting laid.”

  It was an involuntary shudder that brought Mitch to wakefulness. That he was deeply aroused came more slowly to his consciousness. He groaned softly, pressing his head back into the fullness of the pillow. His back arched. He drew one knee up and felt his inner thigh caress the soft skin of a bare shoulder. His heel dug into the mattress. There was no pause in the hot suck of her mouth.

  His eyes opened to tiny slits. The blue-green glow of a night-light defined the perimeter of the bedroom, then the boundary of the bed. He looked down the length of his nose, then his chest. The pale sheet shifted over his thighs. A crown of dark and silky hair emerged. He brushed it with his fingertips.

  “Thea.”

  Now there was a pause. His cock was slowly, exquisitely released. “How did you know it was me?”

  Mitch’s low growl was part laughter, part need. Thea bent her head again, taking him in her mouth, sucking, using her lips and teeth and tongue to caress and tease and pull another response from him. Her fingers massaged his swollen balls. Her hair brushed the inside of his thighs.

  “God, Thea! I’m ...” He felt her swallow, taking him more deeply than she had before. She was so hot. Surrounding him with heat. Damp heat. Silky and wet and on fire. She stroked his thighs, his buttocks. The tiny noises she made at the back of her throat vibrated against his skin. Her tongue swirled, gently abrading, always arousing. His long frame jerked, stretched, and still he managed to contain himself in the taut confines of skin that no longer quite fit.

  He caught her shoulder, then the tips of her hair. His hand curved around the back of her neck. Her name came to his lips as a soft, husky groan.

  Thea lifted her head. Her eyes were dark, vaguely unfocused. “Hmmm?”

  “Come here.”

  Smiling, she slithered forward over his hard belly and harder cock. “You have something in mind?”

  Mitch rolled Thea onto her back and buried himself deep inside her. She accepted him without a murmur. The press of her fingers in his shoulders was the only outward sign that she felt anything at all. He found her silence oddly erotic. He kissed her mouth. Her lips were swollen and damp. She tasted of him.

  He began to move inside her—slowly at first, then, because he could not do it any differently, faster and harder and with single-minded, selfish urgency. She embraced him, embraced his need. Her legs curved around him. She lifted, rocked. Her body contracted inside and out and each caress was both bold and somehow intimate. When he came she did not want to let him go. His body surged against hers and every line of tension that was in him became part of her. She watched him above her, his features taut, the muscles bunching across his back and upper arms. His mouth thinned; the jaw tightened. His entire body shuddered, then went slack.

  Thea cushioned his fall. “No,” she whispered when she felt him stir. “Not yet. Don’t move.”

  He rested his weight on his forearms but otherwise remained as he was. The muscles of her vagina clenched like a fist around him. His hips twitched and he let his head fall forward, grunting softly. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

  Thea stopped. “Is it too much?”

  “A little.”

  She smiled. “You like it though.”

  “Are you kidding? Being the personal trainer for a woman doing Kegel reps? It’s been a dream of mine.”

  It was all Thea could do not to laugh. Concentrating, she repeated the contraction, only harder this time. The movement made her catch her breath and she drew in her lower lip.

  “Aaah,” Mitch said softly. “Teetering on the edge, are we?”

  “I am,” she said dryly. “You came.”

  “Want some help?”

  “Please.” The tiniest inflection gave it the lilt of a question.

  Mitch grinned wickedly as he eased out of her. Thea’s protest was ignored and she forgot about it when his mouth hovered above her breast. “This oughta do it,” he said. Just as if she were going under for the third time, Thea gulped air and held it when Mitch’s lips closed over her nipple. He sucked hard, making her lift for him. His hand slipped between her open thighs; his fingers found her. With only a touch he closed the circuit. For Thea it felt as if every nerve ending in her body was part of an electric arc.

  It was a perfectly lovely orgasm that rippled through her.

  She lay quietly beside him for a while, unconcerned that he was watching her. The fact that he seemed to be inordinately proud of himself amused her. She gave him an arch look. “ ‘This oughta do it? ’ ” she asked, repeating his words with a wry twist. “ ‘This oughta do it? ’ Did you think you were adjusting something under my hood?”

  “I was ... kinda.”

  Her hand snaked out around his neck and brought his head down. Laughter softened her kiss. “I think you must be very good for me, Mitch Baker.”

  Which was exactly what he had said to her father.

  It was a few minutes after three when Mitch woke and discovered he was alone in Thea’s bed. He listened for her in the adjoining bathroom but there was only silence. He got up, found his boxers on the floor and put them on, and then checked on the children before he headed downstairs.

  Thea was sitting on an Adirondack chair on the back deck. From his vantage point in the dark kitchen, Mitch could watch unobserved. Her nightgown was almost as pale as her skin in the moonlight. It formed a tent over the legs she had drawn up to her chest. She was staring out over her knees, over the deck rail, in the direction of the woods and the horizon. In all the time he watched her, she never moved. He wished he could see her face. He did not think she would look so different than when she was sleeping, when her features were swept clear of every care, of others’ expectations, and she dreamed of things that were all her own.

  Mitch slid the door aside. She didn’t stir, but it wasn’t because she hadn’t heard him, but because she had. “Come or go?” he asked.

  “Come.”

  He hitched a hip on the wide, flat arm of the chair and stretched one leg out to the side. “Couldn’t sleep?”

  “I did for a little while. Sometimes I get like this. Restless. Unsettled. It helps to come out here. I used to take a handful of stuff for sleeping.” She shrugged. “Now I do this.”

  Mitch noticed the phone lying on the opposite arm. “Were you talking to Rosie?”

  Thea shook her head. “I thought I might call her. I found I didn’t need to.”

  “Is it getting easier, Thea?”

  “I don’t know how to answer that. I can go days without thinking about using, then something happens—something small, something big—and I’m reminded that what I’m holding on to is a very slender thread. It’s humbling.” She lifted her head and looked up at him. “Today, for instance. My parents ...” Thea’s voice trailed off and she turned away again. “I should have done a better job protecting Emilie. What my mother said to her was unconscionably hurtful. Then I made it worse. Everything she said to the children felt like a criticism of me.”

  “That’s pretty much the way I read it, too,” said Mitch. “I don’t think your perception’s so far off the mark.”

  She glanced at him. “Really?”

  He nodded. “Your dad’s in your corner, though. He doesn’t seem to know how to say it, but that was my impression.”

  “Funny. It was mine, too. I should invite you and the kids to more Sunday dinners with my parents. At least I didn’t th
row up after this one.”

  “That’s what you usually did?”

  “When I was Em’s age, almost every Sunday. I wasn’t bulimic, just nervous. I had to eat what was served and my stomach would be in knots and ...” She shrugged. “You get the picture.”

  Mitch did. “But you got through today without any pills.”

  Thea didn’t miss the small inflection that made it a question. She chose not to be resentful of Mitch for having doubts. It made him prudent, she supposed. Cautious. She had to balance the respect he showed for her addiction with his wary trust in her. It couldn’t be easy for him either. “Yesterday,” she said softly, raising her face to the moon in the southwestern sky. “It was yesterday, but yeah, I got through it without taking a thing.”

  Mitch let his arm fall from the back of the chair to Thea’s shoulders. She leaned into him without any more encouragement than that. A warm breeze stirred her hair. Strands fluttered against his skin. “Then you did good,” Mitch said. “No one who didn’t use did it any better.”

  Thea smiled. He knew the exact right thing to say.

  In the morning the children found Mitch sleeping on the living room couch. They didn’t know he had only stretched out there a scant hour before and they would not have changed much about their behavior had they been aware. Their idea of respecting his sleep involved stealthy movements on tiptoes and communicating in breathy whispers. The effect was more noise than if they had walked and talked normally. When they saw Mitch pull a pillow over his face and heard him groan with gusto, they pounced and eventually wrestled him onto the floor.

  Thea discovered them sprawled on the carpet in a tangle of bed linens. She stood over them, her head cocked to one side as she fastened a gold hoop in her ear. “Cereal’s in the cupboard above the microwave. OJ, milk, and bread is in the fridge. Butter’s out. No coffee, Mitch. Sorry. There are tea bags in a canister on the counter.”

  Four heads lifted simultaneously and four pairs of eyes stared at her with laserlike intensity.

  Thea patted her ear, making certain the hoop was in securely. “What? It’s Monday. I have to go to work.” Her words seemed to have no impact. They continued to stare at her. “I’m running late.” She realized she wasn’t getting through. “All right. I’ll eat breakfast with you.”

  Case jumped up. “Waffles! Waffles!”

  Emilie and Grant joined the chant.

  Mitch merely smiled.

  Thea caved.

  Twenty-six minutes later they were sitting around the kitchen table, helping themselves to a warm stack of homemade waffles and bacon strips, sliding the syrup bottle back and forth like a hockey puck.

  Mitch saw Thea glance at her watch. “You have a meeting?”

  She nodded. “The Carver Chemical account. We’re putting the finishing touches on the campaign. If it’s as good as I think it’s going to be I’ll be trying to get a meeting with Carver in a couple of weeks.”

  “You’re excited about this, aren’t you?”

  “I am,” she admitted.

  He studied her animated face. “It’s nice.”

  Thea smiled. “It is.”

  Mitch was distracted by Grant’s wildly waving fork. “Careful. You’re going to spill your juice.” He caught the glass in the nick of time and pushed it toward the center of the table. “For later,” he said. “When you’re done conducting.” As soon as Grant speared his waffle, Mitch turned back to Thea. “So tell me about this Carver connection. Your mother’s a Carver and I’m guessing Foster and Wyndham used to have the advertising account. What happened?”

  “Nothing nefarious. Carver moved its corporate headquarters out of Pittsburgh in the seventies and took its advertising dollars to Madison Avenue. Except for voting by proxy and collecting dividends on her stock, my mother’s involvement and influence with the company is nil. She used to be active on the foundation’s board, but she lost interest in it after my father retired. There are only one or two Carvers left in key positions. Management’s been from the outside for years.”

  “Then if you get the account it will be on its own merit.”

  “Hell, yes.”

  Case and Grant were immediately attentive.

  Thea sighed. “You guys are like robber barons. My purse is on the sofa.”

  Case pushed out his chair first and dashed to the living room to get it. He held it open for Thea so she could root out a quarter.

  “Here,” she said. “Put it in the jar.”

  “You have a jar?” asked Mitch.

  Thea reached back in her purse. “Hell, yes.” She tossed a quarter to Grant. “Jar,” she said succinctly. “It was Emilie’s idea the first time she stayed with me.”

  Emilie nodded serenely. “Aunt Thea has cable mouth.”

  Mitch blinked. “Cable mouth?”

  “You know. Like cable TV. The channels where you can say anything.”

  Mitch gave a shout of laughter as Thea’s cheeks flushed with color. He ignored her glare and patted Emilie on her shoulder. “Good one, Em. Come on. Let’s help Thea clean up. We still have to get her car.”

  Thea shook her head. “No. I really don’t have time for that. Drive me into town and I’ll get a ride to my parents’ house after work.”

  “All right.” He sidled up to her chair and bussed her on the cheek. “Thanks for breakfast.”

  Thea’s smile was still with her forty minutes later when she walked into the conference room at Foster and Wyndham. It faltered a little when she saw her father.

  He stood. “You don’t mind, do you, Thea? I stopped in to see Hank and he told me about your presentation. He invited me to stay.”

  “Did he?” Thea looked at the expectant faces around the table. “Well, good. Give me a minute, please. I need to get some things in my office.” She backed out of the conference room, shut the door, and took measured, even strides to her own office, trying not to look panicked.

  Thea tossed her briefcase and purse onto the sofa and leaned back against the door. She drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly through her nose. She tried it again, shutting her eyes this time. The exercise was only of marginal value. All she had to do to jump her heart rate and cramp her stomach was imagine facing her father in the conference room. Everyone would be turning to him after the presentation, looking for his approval. His opinion still mattered a great deal at Foster and Wyndham. Even new employees, who didn’t know him to see him, were thoroughly familiar with his reputation and exacting standards.

  She could do this. Thea rested the crown of her head against the door. She could do this. The truth was, she had before. In her first eight years at the agency she had faced her father many times pitching ideas for new ads. It was also true that she’d never done it without some choice drugs. What she needed right now was something to dial down the intensity. Valium. Xanax. Maybe a handful of Ativan.

  Thea’s fists clenched. Hearing papers crumple, she looked down and saw she was holding messages in her left hand—with no idea of how they came to be there. She realized Mrs. Admundson must have pressed them on her before she stepped in her office. Yes. A tranquilizer was definitely in order.

  Or a painkiller. Something to mellow the senses. Vicodin. Someone in the office must have Percocet or OxyContin in their desk. That would give her a goddamn sense of well-being.

  Breathe.

  Thea sucked in air and let the messages flutter to the floor. She counted to ten slowly and then pushed off from the door in the direction of her desk. Before she could begin rifling her center drawer Mrs. A’s voice came over the intercom.

  “Ms. Wyndham?”

  “What is it?” Thea’s voice was uncharacteristically sharp. There was a slight pause before Mrs. Admundson continued.

  “Mr. Foster is wondering where you are.”

  “I’m here. Does he need a map?”

  There was another pause. “Are you all right, Ms. Wyndham?”

  “I’m fine. I need a few minutes.” Thea cut the intercom and p
icked up the receiver. She punched in ten numbers on the base.

  Four rings, then: “Hey there. Unless you’re new to the planet—”

  Thea hung up and tried another number. Two rings this time, then: “The cellular customer you are calling is currently not available or is outside the—” She slammed the phone down. No Rosie. No Mitch. There was no point in calling Joel. As supportive as he tried to be, he had never understood. Not really. Thea opened the shallow center drawer and began pushing papers and pens around. The paper clip tray tipped and spilled its contents. Markers. Scissors. Staple remover.

  Her fingers dug a mint green pill out of one corner of the drawer. It was impressed with a V in the center. Thea palmed the Valium and kept looking. Loose change. Rubber bands. Stray business cards.

  Thea fanned out the cards and found her counselor’s number. She picked up the phone again and called. Almost immediately she was connected with voice mail. She was given the option of talking to someone else in the event her call was an emergency, but Thea didn’t want to talk to a stranger. What would she say? She unfolded her hand and looked at the small green pill sitting in the heart of her palm. It was as innocuous as an after-dinner mint. How could she explain that right now she was feeling very much like a little girl whose fingers were poised at the rolling lips of a wringer?

  Who knew anything about that?

  Thea hit the intercom button. “Mrs. Admundson? Would you please ask my father to come in here?”

  The presentation came off without a hitch. For Thea it was the easier of the two she did that day. The one she made to her father, the one where she put the Valium in his hand and made him listen to exactly what frightened her, was infinitely more difficult and ultimately more rewarding. It was the first time she had ever been able to acknowledge that the monsters that scared her were the ones that lived inside. It didn’t matter that he was more than a little bewildered by her stream-of-consciousness confession or the passion with which she delivered it. She cared more that he was sitting on her sofa beneath the Warhol print he had always disliked and never once mentioned it. She liked that he gave her his full attention and that even when his mouth thinned in disapproval or disagreement, he didn’t interrupt her. She shocked him, she thought, when she told him how much his good opinion meant to her—but that she wouldn’t wreck her life being afraid of his poor one.