smell of fresh coffee greeted her warmly.
She fished around on a shelf above the sink until she came up with the mug a
child had molded for her last year in a ceramics class. She poured herself a cup
and was just taking her first sip when Ethan Tantry walked in and gave her a
huge smile. Ethan was one of the child therapists, and often volunteered to take
the toughest cases. Yet he was a slight man with a receding hairline, wire-rim
glasses, and such an exaggerated effeminate manner that Celia had been genuinely
surprised to learn that he was married and straight.
"Morning, Miss G."
"Morning, Mr. T."
Their exchange was as familiar to them as their faces.
"And how is Mr. G. these days? Counting on disasters? Making money off of other
people's fears, pray tell?"
Celia laughed. Ethan's mockery of Jack and the insurance business never ceased,
but it was all an act. Like most of the town, he bought his homeowner's, car,
and life insurance from The Griswold Agency.
"He's fine, no complaints."
"Fancy that, no complaints. That's a first around here. And do tell, how is that
visually challenged kitty of yours?"
"Pluto is fine, thank you." Celia performed a half-curtsy with her free hand.
"But we did have an unexpected visitor this morning."
"Don't tell me; one of his mountain-lion cousins dropped by for a meal."
"No, no, nothing that dramatic. A dog. A Border collie showed up at the door."
"Oh, my, my, a new member of the household."
"We'll see. Jack's not too keen on the idea."
"Well, if you don't keep him, Fido's gonna fry. Did I ever tell you about the
time Holly's little Pomeranian slept on my jeans?"
Celia shook her head. "No, I don't think so." She knew it would have been
hopeless to try to discourage him.
"This was back when we first started dating, when life was so simple. Anyway, it
was the first time I'd ever spent the night there and Flibbitts— that was her
name, can you believe it?— curls up on my jeans and falls asleep. I'm thinking,
Oh, this is really sweet. Everything's going to work out just fine." Ethan shook
his head. "No, the little bitch was in heat but did moi know? Of course not. The
next day I started across campus and these dogs came out of nowhere and started
trying to hump me. I mean, it's like they're stapled to me. They're on my legs,
my knees, there was even this little guy trying to hump my foot. He looked like
a Brillo pad with a carrot stuck to it."
"I think you're putting me on," Celia said with a smile.
"No, as God is my judge, that's exactly what happened." Ethan crossed his heart.
"Sure."
"Okay, okay, maybe I embroidered just a little." He gave Celia an impish grin
and pointed to the coffeepot. "Pour me a cup, would you. I love to watch." Ethan
made this remark sound positively lascivious.
Celia favored him with an act of her own, lifting the pot a foot or so above his
mug and aiming with the supreme confidence and flourish of a flamboyant
waitress, which she had been for more years than she cared to recall. Ethan
sounded pleased to be so honored.
"Look at that, look at that," he exclaimed as she lowered the lip of the
coffeepot to his cup. "Are we stylish this morning, or what? I'm so impressed,
Miss G, really. You do it with such flair, such"— he paused to roll his eyes
dramatically—"panache, and it's so lacking around here. See what I mean. Look,
he's here, the big lug himself."
Dr. Tony Weston, the Center's new director, didn't seem to know just how to
handle Ethan's gibes. In the three weeks since his arrival Tony had been crisp
with the staff and had not allowed himself to settle into their relaxed rhythms.
Celia wondered if his size had always made him feel separate from others. Tony
stood six and a half feet tall, and even though he was well into his fifties he
carried a solid athletic frame. In appearance and temperament, he was quite the
opposite of Ethan.
"Any left?" Tony tried to look around Celia, who realized she blocked his view
of the coffeemaker.
"Oops, sorry. I think there's—"
Ethan interrupted her with a French accent: "For you, Tony? Why, but of course.
Here, let Cecilia do it. She's in such a sporting mood this morning."
"No, that's okay," Tony replied in his starchy manner.
Ethan put his hands on his hips and eyed Tony's feet. Even before he said
anything, Celia knew he was about to goad him some more. She didn't think this
was very wise. He was, after all, Ethan's new boss. Hers too. But once Ethan got
going, he rarely stopped, and this morning proved no exception.
"Say, are those new Nikes, or did you just rent a couple of barges for the day?"
Celia tried to stifle a laugh, but couldn't. Tony, in fact, was wearing a new
pair of athletic shoes— white, which made his feet look enormous, even larger
than they were; and they were huge, something like a size fifteen or sixteen.
They had been a source of some raillery almost from the day he walked in the
door.
Ethan would not let up: "I'll tell you, if I were an otter and I saw you coming,
baby, I'd book. I'd get out on the first thing smoking."
Tony granted Ethan a tense smile. He tolerated him, that was clear to Celia.
Maybe me too, she thought. He certainly didn't think much of art therapy. He'd
been clear enough about that. Tony was very much the behaviorist. He appeared to
care only about fast results. He glanced at both of them.
"Sorry I can't hang around for more of the fun," he said, without sounding as if
he'd had any fun at all, "but I've got some case reviews to attend to."
As he turned to leave, Ethan piped up one more time: "See you, Sasquatch."
Tony ignored him.
"Me too," Celia said, checking her watch. "I'd better book."
"Bye, chile." Ethan gave her a beauty-queen wave.
"Toodles."
What a silly word, Celia thought as she walked down the hall. Why'd I say that?
She wasn't even sure there was such a word. But Ethan made her laugh and feel
playful enough to say things like that. She liked him. She worried that she was
starting to like him too much.
7
Jack shook the hand of young Larry Thorston and wished him a very good day. He'd
certainly gotten Jack's day off to a fine start. Monday mornings usually brought
in only claims— Saturday-night car wrecks and Sunday-morning fender benders— but
Jack had just sold the recently wedded Mr. Thorston a
two-hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar life-insurance policy. Not nearly as flush as
Jack's own, or the one he'd taken out on Celia's life, but still not bad
considering the guy barely earned twenty thousand dollars a year at the only
mill still operating in Bentman. But the kid had a teenage bride even younger
than himself and the good-natured giddiness of a small-town boy delighting in
his first regular hump. In short, young Larry was pliable, suggestible, a nearly
ideal client.
Ah yes, the pleasures of owning an insurance agency in a burg like Bentman. It
sure beat the slash-and-burn tactics he'd had to put up with in Chicago. For
starters, he didn't have any competition here. That counted for a lot. Folks
either dealt with him or they drove the twenty miles to North Fork. Usually,
like young Mr. Thorston, they dealt with Jack. And why not? He did his best to
keep them happy. You just couldn't take anything for granted, not even a
monopoly, and by no means a marriage. He could have told little Larry a thing or
two about that, but then he might not have been so
pliable...suggestible...ideal. Besides, Jack believed that marital cynicism was
the province of older males. Someday Larry Thorston would know this, but by then
he'd have at least one unhappy wife and several unruly children, and more
insurance than he'd ever need. Most of Jack's customers did.
But in truth, Jack envied the young man his unbridled innocence and undivided
love. Jack possessed neither, and for the tenth or eleventh time— he'd honestly
lost count— he found himself right smack in the middle of a raging affair.
Back around the Fourth of July he had advertised for someone to fill a clerical
position. With the timber industry in such rapid decline, jobs had become
scarce. Even so he'd been shocked when thirty-two people stopped by to fill out
applications. After two full days of interviewing he was exhausted, but when
Helen Atkins walked in the door he sat up and took notice. Her full figure had
commanded his attention first. Then, when she sat down, her snug miniskirt rose
halfway up her substantial, though shapely, thighs. She volunteered that she was
twenty-six, loved to make work a "fun place," and despite the rings on her
finger never once mentioned her husband. Jack was smitten, and decided then and
there that if she could type, she could have the job. She could type. Could she
ever!
They'd flirted for more than two months before ending up on the carpet in the
walk-in vault where he kept the most critical documents. She'd turned out to be
an aggressive, athletic lover, much different from Celia, who displayed her
affections softly, both in word and deed. Helen was a big woman, and he had
quickly come to see that her lust matched her royal stature. In just two hours
on Friday night she left him drained for the entire weekend. At forty-five he
was slowing down, but Helen had almost twenty years of youth on her side and was
almost always raring to go.
He saw her rise from her desk and straighten out her skirt. The fabric rubbed
against her buns and revealed their full, firm shape. She turned toward him, and
his pulse quickened. The very sound of her hose-covered thighs brushing against
each other—swish, swish— made him want to fall to his knees and pleasure her
instantly.
She tapped playfully on the glass partition that separated Jack from the rest of
the office.
"May I come in?" she asked demurely.
He loved that silky voice coming from a woman so robust, so Rubenesque,
so...rapacious.
"Of course, of course, you're welcome in my little space anytime. Here, have a
seat." He patted the chair next to his desk and wished that for the next few
minutes he could be nothing more than the cushion on which she was about to
perch.
She stepped into his cubicle—swish, swish, swish— and eased past him. He smelled
her perfume and resisted the urge to bite her behind. He also tried mightily not
to steal a glimpse up her legs as she sat down. He failed. She noticed, but
proved to be a generous spirit and allowed him quite an eyeful as she arranged
her skirt. Neither of them commented on her pert performance.
He forced himself to glance at Ruth, his only other employee, and was relieved
to see her busy with a customer. He thought of her as an older woman, though she
was much closer to Jack's age than Helen was.
"I have a problem," Helen said with great seriousness.
Jack coughed. "A problem?" He coughed again. His mouth suddenly felt dry, and as
he picked up his coffee cup he desperately tried to calculate whether it was
even possible for Helen to be pregnant yet. As he swallowed he reached a
conclusion so dreadful that he almost gagged.
"Well"— he recovered as smoothly as he could—"I'll be glad to help you out in
any way I can." He was thinking abortion, of course, and wishing like hell he'd
been generous enough to include health in his employee-benefits package.
"I don't know how to put this," she said in those same grave tones that most of
us reserve for the most direct of circumstances, "but my problem is you."
"Me?" His voice came out as a squeak.
Helen nodded and dropped her eyes to the hem of her skirt, which had settled a
distracting distance above her knees. Jack shared the view as he made every
effort to sound more confident.
"I hate to think that I'm causing you any problems because, as you know"— he
shot a glance at Ruth, then lowered his voice along with his eyes—"I have
nothing but the warmest feelings for you."
"I know," Helen said with sudden urgency. She raised her head to look at Jack,
and he felt compelled to leave behind the vision of those lovely legs. "But
that's the problem. For a month now all I can think about is you. I mean, I'm a
married woman. I shouldn't be thinking about doing all those things to you, but
I do— all day long!"
"I know exactly what you mean." He reached out to pat her knee but stopped short
when he spotted Ruth looking at them. His hand fell lamely to his desk, which he
then drummed pointlessly. "I'm married too, you know." He thought it important
to remind her of this. "But when I look at you out there working away, I just
want to reach out and squeeze your cheeks and—"
"I know. Me too. All I think about is what we do and how much I like doing it. A
lot more than with Ralph," she added with what sounded like true remorse.
Jack felt guilty at the mention of Ralph's name. Last year he lost his job when
one of the timber companies folded, and Helen had recently confided that he'd
run out of unemployment benefits and spent his days watching "Oprah" and
"Geraldo." But just as Jack was feeling the virtue of his guilt, Helen crossed
her legs and her thighs issued that sweet swishing sound, and he promptly forgot
all about What's-his-name.
He realized that he'd been leaning closer and closer to her as she talked, and
wondered if his tongue had been hanging out too. He made himself sit up
straight. No sense making Ruth suspicious, if she wasn't already, which in his
more sober moments he knew she had to be.
Though he'd assumed a more businesslike posture, Jack kept his voice warm and