A Place Called Home (14 page)

“I’m flying to New York Tuesday afternoon.”

Had he mentioned that before? she wondered. Thinking of the work she had left at the office so her weekend would be clear, Thea did not want to be pressed into doing something with him on Monday. “When you get back, then.” Joel’s silence told her exactly what he thought of that. “Please, Joel. Please, don’t press me right now.”

“Thea ...”

“Please, Joel.”

There was a long exhale. “Call me tomorrow when you get home.”

“Of course.” Thea realized she wanted to get off the phone before their conversation ended with a rote exchange of I love you. “Good night, Joel.” Her thumb poised, she clicked off and replaced the phone on the nightstand. She sat quietly for more than a minute, not so much thinking as calming herself. By slow degrees she became aware of some oddly rhythmic breathing behind her, punctuated by little whistles, sighs, and exaggerated snoring sounds. “All right, you guys, you asked for it!” She raised the comforter, slid beneath it, and attacked three giggling, wriggling bodies with tickle fingers.

Mitch stood in the driveway and waved Gina off. He watched the SUV to the end of the block before he pressed the garage door opener he was carrying with him. The light came on inside the garage and Mitch tossed the opener on the front seat of his truck before he entered the house. Except for the eerie blue glow of a few night-lights, the house was dark. He expected to find Thea in the living room, perhaps crashed on the couch, but it was empty. Out of habit, he checked the front door and found it unlocked. He nearly tripped on the pile of shoes half blocking the entrance, and as he was catching his balance his foot hit something that overturned, bounced, and rolled. For a moment he thought he’d broken whatever it was, then he recognized the sound of change spilling onto the floor. The cussing jar. Remembering Thea’s almost compulsively neat office, as well as her disapproval of his frank language, Mitch had to grin. Apparently she’d had a revision of standards.

Mitch went to the kitchen, checked the patio doors, and put the ball of his foot on something hard and round that had him hopping on one foot until he could get at it. Once he had it in hand he recognized the plastic game token for what it was. He set it on the table on top of the game box and for a moment he didn’t move, afraid of what other booby traps they’d set for him. He had also made plenty of noise to get Thea’s attention, but he’d yet to hear anyone stirring upstairs.

The blinking light on the answering machine caught his attention. Mitch shuffled toward it and hit the button. He recognized Thea’s voice:
Just a moment. I’m here. I can’t—
Then a man’s clear baritone,
It’s Joel, Thea. Listen, I don’t like the way we left—
Mitch let the machine reset and considered what he’d just heard, or more correctly, overheard. Joel Strahern. So Thea’s fiancé had called, and not much more than an hour ago if the machine’s time was accurate. The truncated message was too cryptic to analyze. To keep himself from speculating, Mitch shrugged out of his jacket, tossed it over a kitchen chair, and went in search of Thea and the kids. No doubt she’d stretched out with one or two of them and had fallen asleep herself. He knew firsthand how simply that could happen.

Mitch peeked in Emilie’s room first and found it empty. The twins’ bunks were also vacant. There was only one place left they could be since the guest bedroom was now a giant storage closet. Mitch padded down the hallway and soundlessly entered his own bedroom.

He could have set off an M-80 and not shaken the quartet sleeping in his bed. The children had rooted around Thea like a litter of kittens looking for sustenance. The down comforter and sheet were more off than on, but the combined heat of their huddled bodies kept them from missing the twisted covers.

He stood beside the bed, taking in the scene, and found himself oddly moved by it. One of Thea’s arms was curved around Case’s small shoulders. Grant was pressed to her back. Emilie was on the other side of Case, her chin just above his head so her face was very near Thea’s.
Serene
was the only word that came to Mitch’s mind to describe them, and he knew a certain sense of loss that he had no right to join them. Plus, Case’s face was burrowed just about where Mitch wished his own was.

He was such a guy, he thought. Dragging his eyes away from Thea’s breasts, they fell on her face. He could make out her fair profile against his navy blue sheets. Feathery threads of her deeply red hair lay lightly against her forehead and cheek. Her lips were slightly parted, her breathing soundless. The darker shadow of her lashes was like a smudge he should have been able to wipe away with the pad of his thumb. Mitch thrust his hands into his pockets.

Having spent just long enough at his bedside to feel like a voyeur, Mitch retreated to the hallway and shut the door gently. The kids would be fine there even if Thea woke and left them.

Mitch would have preferred to sleep in the twins’ room—it at least had some traditional manly stuff like race cars and plush carnivorous dinosaurs in it—but the bunks also had foot and headboards that made it difficult for Mitch to stretch out all seventy-four inches of his frame. That left Emilie’s Pepto-pink room or the living room couch. Comfort was the deciding factor. He opted for Em’s ruffled canopy bed and hoped he did not have man boobs by morning, even though it would serve him right.

Thea woke disoriented. Sunshine slanted across the room and a beam fell on the back of her hand as she raised it to her face. She blinked and resisted rubbing her eyes, brushing back the hair on her forehead instead. Reaching to the left side of the bed, she searched for the bottle of wetting solution she kept there. With her contacts her vision was always blurry first thing in the morning. She groped, couldn’t find it, and allowed a wide, lazy yawn to erase her puzzled expression. And then it came to her. She bolted upright, clutching at the covers and then patting them down for evidence of smaller bodies. She was alone.

Alone in the middle of Mitchell Baker’s king-sized bed with no children in sight.

From downstairs she heard voices that were muffled by the closed bedroom door. Outside a car door slammed. Swearing softly, she swiveled her head and squinted at the bedside alarm. Her voice was something between a whisper and a groan. “That can’t be right.” But she knew it probably was. Nine o’clock. She couldn’t remember ever sleeping so long or so late and feeling rested at the end of it. Now, she jumped out of bed and hurried to the window and found it a remarkably easy thing to do.

Looking out the double-hung window on the driveway below, Thea saw a maroon sedan blocking the entrance. The twins’ christening had been the last time she had seen the woman standing beside the car, but Thea recognized her as Mitchell’s mother. There was no mistaking the energetic hand waving and animated features that were Jennie Baker’s calling card. A black felt hat with a rolled, upturned brim covered her chestnut hair. “Steamy cappuccino,” she’d confided in Thea at the christening. “That’s what my hairdresser tells me. Now, I ask you? Am I the steamy type?” Thea could not remember her own response, but she remembered Jennie throwing back her head and laughing with full-throated enjoyment.

The children were hurrying down the driveway to the car, encouraged by Jennie’s broad, welcoming smile and the sweep of her arm. Her trim figure was shown off nicely in a lined and belted raincoat. She had a kiss for each child before she ushered them into the back seat of the car. From Thea’s vantage point, she couldn’t see the driver, but she assumed it was Mitch’s father behind the wheel. Nonny and Pap, she thought, come to take the children to Sunday school.

Thea held her breath, waiting for Mitch to amble out and join the family. He ambled, all right. That slow, rolling, sexy gait moved him from the garage to the car, but Thea knew almost at once he wasn’t going to church with the rest of them. Jennie Baker wouldn’t have let him in the car in the jeans and wrinkled Oxford shirt that he had had on since yesterday, not when the destination was Sunday services.

Thea watched them converse: Jennie, lively and high-spirited; Mitch, enjoying himself, but infinitely more contained. She knew the exact moment when the conversation turned to her. Jennie’s attention shifted to the Volvo parked in front of their car and she pointed to it. Thea could almost hear the question that followed. Mitch began talking—making explanations, Thea was certain—and then she caught the change in their posture, that small movement of shifting weight that signaled they were ready to look back at the house, quite possibly up at the window. She drew back quickly, flattening herself against the wall so if they looked, there was nothing for them to see.

Okay, the fact that she was still holding one panel of the tab curtains in her hands was probably a little damning, she decided. Uncurling her fingers, she let the curtain fall back in place.

Thea let out the breath she was holding slowly. Two car doors closed in quick succession, the sedan pulled away from the curb, and a few moments later there was the sound of the garage door sliding shut. It wasn’t long before she could hear Mitch entering the house and moving around the kitchen.

At first she thought he was talking to himself, then she realized he was actually singing. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t make out the words or the tune, Mitch’s message couldn’t have been clearer. She didn’t know if he was diabolical, maniacal, or just plain idiotic, but she was certain he meant for her to know it was time to face the music.

Chapter 5

Thea had a grab-and-go bag in the trunk of her car that was absolutely of no use to her now. Filled with the kind of essentials she might expect to use on a last minute out-of-town jaunt, she discovered she actually missed her toothbrush the most. Squeezing paste on her index finger and smearing it over her teeth was not what the ADA recommended. She found some mouthwash in Mitch’s medicine cabinet, checked the contents, then swished it between her teeth to good effect.

Thea looked around for products that Gina might have left behind: face cleanser, moisturizer, a pot of lip gloss. There was nothing. She washed her face with a slim bar of what could have been any soap and turned out to be the deodorant variety. After the chemical face peel, Thea spritzed her hair with water and combed and fluffed it with her fingers.

She regarded herself critically in the mirror and decided she looked exactly like what she was: a thirtysomething woman who was still wearing yesterday’s underwear.

In the hope of garnering a casual, unconcerned look for herself, Thea pushed the sleeves of her sweater up to her elbows and did a Scarlett O’Hara on her cheeks and lips. “Ow!” She made a face at her reflection and examined the lower lip she had just bitten too hard. Obviously there were limits to how much rosy color you could raise without bruising.

Thea made Mitch’s bed then sat down at the foot of it to compose herself. At least he had stopped singing. It was quiet downstairs; the proof of life below was in the fragrance of brewing coffee that wafted up from the kitchen and slipped under the door. She took a slow, deep breath and became a believer in aromatherapy.

Thea didn’t leave the bedroom until she felt prepared to make light conversation and an effortless good-bye. She did not want Mitch to think she was beating a hasty retreat, which of course, was exactly what she was doing. God, she thought, descending the stairs, how insane would she be if she had slept with him instead of three kids?

Thea came up short when she stepped into the kitchen and found it empty. The remains of the children’s breakfast were still scattered on the table and by the sink. Her eyes strayed to the under-the-counter coffeemaker with its glass carafe still being filled.

“Pour me a cup, will you?”

Starting, Thea spun around looking for the source of Mitch’s disembodied voice. She saw an open door off the rear of the kitchen that she had assumed was a pantry area last night. Now she walked toward it and caught sight of Mitch sitting on a high stool at his drafting table. His heels were hooked on a rung and he was leaning forward, sleeves rolled up, forearms resting on the slanted white laminate surface of the table while he studied his work. A bright red lamp clipped to one corner put the drawing in front of him in a spotlight.

Sensing Thea’s presence on the threshold, Mitch looked up. He smiled easily and gave his glasses a slight nudge up the bridge of his nose. His hand lifted higher as he ran it through his hair. “Hi.”

Thea’s preparation was for nothing. The glasses threw her. He looked so damn appealing in them: contemplative, cerebral, and hot. He was wearing the same underwear, wasn’t he? It wasn’t fair.

Mitch looked down at her empty hands. “Coffee?”

Realizing she was hovering, Thea ducked out of the doorway and went in search of a mug. “How do you take it?”

“Cream. It’s in the fridge.” Mitch picked up his pencil and made a few strokes on the cartoon he was working on, better defining the president’s ears. With his own, he listened to Thea moving in his kitchen. “Did you find everything you needed?” he called in.

“The cream was behind the—”

“No, I mean in the bathroom. There’s a little basket of toiletries—soaps, toothbrushes, shampoos—mostly stuff I’ve collected at hotels. The towels are mine though,” he added as an afterthought. “The basket was behind them in the linen closet. Did you find it?”

“Oh, yeah. Great idea, that basket.”
Lousy place to put it.
She came back with his cup of coffee.

“You’re hovering again.” He put down his pencil and held out his hand. His fingers made a curling motion, inviting her in.

Thea hesitated, her eyes darting from Mitch’s extended hand to the cluttered landscape of his office. It was difficult to take in the totality of the disorder. In addition to the drafting board, there was also a desk, the wide expanse of its surface barely visible because of a cityscape of towers built from sketchbooks, magazines, CDs, books, newspapers, and old calendars. One tower had been shifted from its foundation to make room for the cussing jar. Now the uppermost part of it leaned precariously over the edge of the desk, defying gravity and making Thea want to hold her breath in anticipation of its collapse.