by Jo Goodman
Thea knew he was being kind. “Thanks for coming down with the kids. Your dad was great about sharing you and the kids today.” Then, because his hands were full, Thea took a step toward him and kissed him on the cheek.
“You missed,” he said.
She smiled. “I think I—”
Mitch kissed her full on the mouth. Her parted lips were damp and tasted faintly of the tartness of lime. “Let’s go. It’s too quiet in there.”
Nodding, Thea parted the pocket doors and deliberately left them open once she and Mitch had stepped into the formal living room. The children were subdued. They were all sitting rather stiff-backed on the Queen Anne bench with the cabriolet legs. Emilie had placed herself between Case and Grant and had her hands neatly folded in her lap and legs crossed properly at the ankles. The boys’ feet did not touch the floor. Their legs swung independently of each other, missing the synchronized beat every time.
No one was talking and everyone looked in need of rescuing.
“Oh, you’re here,” Patricia said, her tone more relieved than welcoming.
“I would hardly abandon you and Daddy,” Thea said, “to the tender mercies of these three.” With her back to her parents she smiled encouragingly to the trio on the bench. She handed Emilie her Shirley Temple while Mitch relieved himself of his extra glasses.
George Wyndham had risen slightly at their entrance. Now he indicated that Thea and Mitch should be seated. They each took an overstuffed chair on either side of the green-veined marble fireplace and George settled back beside his wife on the love seat. “Emilie has been explaining that she would like to attend dance camp,” said George. “What is that exactly?”
“A summer camp,” Thea said, glad to discover there had been some conversation in her absence. “Just the sort that I attended when I was her age, but with activities that focus on dance.”
“What sort of dance?” Patricia asked, looking over Emilie. “She hasn’t the figure for ballet.” In a manner that was faux confidential, Patricia leaned slightly in Emilie’s direction and said, “You like sweets, don’t you, dear? It’s all right. So do I.”
Thea could not remember the last time she had seen her mother eat chocolate. Flushing, embarrassed by her mother’s tactlessness and feeling Emilie’s humiliation keenly, Thea threw herself into the breach. “Emilie is a talented dancer,” she said. “She likes tap and jazz, but ballet is her first love. I shouldn’t be surprised if Emilie wins the Clara role in a few years.”
“Really?” Patricia sipped her drink. “The Nutcracker? At Heinz Hall? How extraordinary.”
Thea felt Emilie’s hard stare. It will be all right, Thea wanted to say, but she wasn’t entirely certain it would be. In response to her mother’s impolitic remarks, Thea heard herself speaking rashly, not really coming to Emilie’s defense but putting pressure on her. Emilie had never once said that she might like to dance Clara’s role. Right now Emilie aspired to be a sugar plum. Not a sugar plum fairy. Just the marzipan. “Yes,” Thea said a little weakly. “Extraordinary. Emilie is extraordinary.”
Mitch winked at Emilie. He took it as a bad sign that the corners of her mouth did not so much as flicker. “We’re still in the discussion phase of dance camp,” he told the Wyndhams. “Did the twins tell you they’re taking swimming lessons?”
George shook his head. “We haven’t heard from them.”
It wasn’t because they were afraid of saying the wrong thing, Mitch thought. It was because they were just afraid. “They’re both going to take their final test this coming Saturday. One length of the pool. Deep to shallow. No stopping. Right, guys?”
Case and Grant stopped swinging their legs long enough to nod in unison.
George was thoughtful. “Didn’t Gabriel swim competitively, Thea? I seem to remember that he did.”
“Yes. In high school and college.”
“I thought so. He was rather good at it.”
“Yes, he was. And the twins are—”
“Enjoying themselves.” Mitch broke in before Thea could promise her father the boys were headed for the Olympics. “They’re regular water babies.”
“I’m not a baby,” Grant announced.
“Me neither,” Case said.
Patricia blinked. It was as animated as her features became. “They’re very forward, aren’t they, dear?”
At first Mitch thought she was talking to her husband, but then he realized it was Thea who was meant to respond. Directed at George, Mitch might have been able to excuse the comment as a mere observation; directed at Thea, it took on the character of a mild rebuke. “Fast forward,” Mitch said lightly.
“All day, every day,” Thea said, darting a quick glance at Mitch to let him know she appreciated his timing and humor.
“Really?” Patricia imbued the question with a sort of re-galness that was almost a parody. “And your nerves? You don’t find it wearing?”
“On the contrary, I find it suits me.”
“Really?” she said again in exactly the same tone. “How astonishing.”
Mitch couldn’t tell Patricia Wyndham’s astonished expression from her disapproving one. He suspected it was because astonishment was simply a classy way of showing disapproval. His mother and sister had their own version of it at yard sales and craft fairs. When either one of them commented that some article was interesting, it was code for Can you believe how tacky this is?
Berte appeared in the doorway and announced dinner. Thea could have kissed her for the timely interruption. Instead, she encouraged the children to stand and accompany her into the dining room. “Leave your drinks here,” she told them. “It’s okay this time. Berte will get them.”
Mitch could see from Emilie’s expression that the advantage of having a housekeeper was not lost on her. She looked as if she could get used to the idea very quickly. He put a period to that idea with a single, quelling glance.
The dining room was finished in dark walnut. Each inlaid panel was polished to a reflective gloss. Stained-glass windows on the west wall filtered the late-afternoon sunlight into the room and splashed the white linen tablecloth with transparent color. The table was set with china rimmed in gold leaf and the silverware was silver, not stainless steel. The centerpiece bowl that held a fresh arrangement of pink hydrangeas was Waterford. So were the goblets and wineglasses.
Mitch looked over the table setting, especially the crystal, then at the twins. They had passed through the sippy-cup phase years ago, but they liked their drinks in boxes and pouches and plastic. He’d never seen them handle stemware. It was tempting to write a blank check at the beginning of the meal just so he could enjoy it.
The children settled into their chairs with aplomb, their hands folded neatly in their laps, their glances darting toward Thea for approval. That was Mitch’s first clue that there had been a recent crash course in deportment. Emilie, Case, and Grant were acting as if they’d never fought over a Happy Meal toy in their lives. They didn’t blink when sherbet in cold silver cups was presented to them as the first course. They didn’t hesitate to choose the proper fork for the salad. They ate slowly, listened to the conversation around them without interrupting, and never failed to say please and thank you. No one made a face when they learned the meat dish was lamb and the green wiggling stuff wasn’t Jell-O, but mint jelly. It was a stunning transformation and their exemplary behavior did not go unremarked by Patricia Wyndham as the interminable meal reached the dessert phase.
“They have lovely manners,” she said, directing her comment to Mitch.
“Stepford training,” he said without blinking an eye or catching Thea’s. He patted her back as she choked anyway.
“Stepford?” Patricia looked confused. “I don’t think I—”
George Wyndham smiled thinly. “The Ira Levin book,” he explained to his wife. “We both read it years ago. Perfect wives and mothers. I believe Mr. Baker is implying the children have been brainwashed.”
Case’s brow puckered with
real consternation. “I don’t think so, Mr. Wyndham. Because all I washed was behind my ears and Uncle Mitch told me that was okay.”
“That was fine,” Mitch said. He noticed Case looked relieved. Clearly some sort of bribery had occurred. Thea was being careful not to look in his direction and also to avoid the children.
“You prepared the children, Thea?” George asked.
She looked up. “Yes.” A little defiantly, almost as afterthought, she added, “I wanted them to be comfortable.”
George Wyndham’s expression did not change as he regarded his daughter. “That was good of you,” he said after a moment.
It struck Mitch that these stiffly spoken words were very difficult for the man, that presenting Thea with a token, perhaps diamonds, or slipping her a C-note would have been his preference. Patricia Wyndham, he noticed, had nothing to say. She was too sloshed, though in a perfectly civil way.
Mitch dropped heavily onto a wide, overstuffed armchair in Thea’s living room and remained in a classic sprawl for a full minute before he moved again. Finally, he undid the already loose knot in his tie and pulled it off. It remained lying limply over his knee and thigh until Thea passed within a foot of the chair, then he tried flicking her with it.
Amused, she shook her head as though disappointed in his poor effort. She took the tie from him and looped it around her neck. “You are one sorry individual,” she said, pushing the ottoman in front of him. “Here, put your feet up.” When he didn’t, she sat down on it and invited him again, this time to put his feet on her lap. She ended up having to help him by pulling on his trouser legs.
“You never would have been able to drive home,” she said, critically observing his heavy-lidded, slumberous eyes. His smile was faintly lopsided, endearingly so. She had not had any difficulty convincing Mitch that he should allow her to drive them all to her house for the night since it was so much closer to her parents’ home. “How much did you have to drink after dinner?”
He held up one finger. “Never could seem to find the bottom of that glass, though.”
“Ah, yes. I know that glass.” She began massaging one of his stockinged feet, using the balls of her thumbs on his arch. He groaned appreciatively and let his head fall back again. “Like that, do you?” Mitch’s reply was inarticulate but conveyed great pleasure. “It was my mother that kept topping off your drink, wasn’t it? She can be insistent. She doesn’t like to drink alone.”
“Your mother’s a lush, Thea.”
“Don’t laugh, Mitch, but I’m just realizing it.”
He didn’t laugh. “I read somewhere that lots of people don’t figure it out about their own parents until they get into recovery themselves.”
“You read that?” she asked, equal parts skeptical and curious.
Mitch shrugged. “Read it. Heard it. I don’t remember.”
Thea worked on the sole of his foot. “Now where would you hear something like that? I never said it.”
“No, you never did. You don’t talk much about it, not since you laid it out for me, so I figured I’d just find out some things on my own.”
“On your own? What do you mean?”
“Well, I thought I’d go to some meetings. Open ones. Al-Anon—you know, the one for family and friends of alcoholics and addicts. It was interesting.”
Thea simply stared at him.
“You wanna know why?” he asked.
She nodded slowly, afraid to know, afraid not to. Her thumbs pressed into the ball of his foot and stilled.
He grinned at her, one brow kicking up. “Don’t stop.” He wiggled his toes. “I like you, Thea. Like you a lot. Thought I should try to be a better friend.”
Thea began massaging again. The fist squeezing her heart eased, but not as much as she would have thought. It made her wonder what she had been hoping he’d say. “You’ve been a very good friend,” she said because she meant it and because it was true.
“But not like Joel.”
“No, not at all like Joel. But that’s not a bad thing. I need different kinds of friends.”
“And lovers?”
She frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Mitch sighed as Thea transferred her attentions to his other foot and closed his eyes. “Do you need different lovers? We haven’t been together since we fooled around in the truck. That was—”
“Mother’s Day,” she said. “Yes, I know. I was there. Fooling around. I just thought that with the kids and ... well, I didn’t think you ... we’re never really alone, Mitch. The kids are upstairs now.”
“Conked out.”
“That’s not the point. They’ll be awake in the morning, and I thought we were in agreement that they shouldn’t find us sharing a bed.”
“Funny how you came to an agreement about something we never discussed.” He wiggled his toes again to get her to resume her ministrations. “The real point is—and I’m coming to it—is that your father tells me you’re still screwing Joel Strahern.”
Chapter 13
Thea knocked Mitch’s feet from her lap and rocketed off the ottoman. “That was a perfectly lousy thing to say.”
He regarded her with wounded eyes as his heels thumped hard on the carpet. “What?”
“Don’t look at me as if you’re the injured party.” Thea turned and started to leave. She managed only a single step before she found her wrist caught in Mitch’s firm grip. She stared pointedly at her hand, then at him. “I think you should let me go.”
He didn’t. Instead he gave her wrist a tug. With no more effort than that he had Thea in his lap, though her revenge was to collapse against him with rather more force than was necessary. Mitch’s grunt did not make her sympathetic. He had to release Thea’s hand in order to rearrange her deadweight across his thighs. “Guess this means I’m not gonna get laid.”
“Good guess.”
Mitch took her response in stride. “You wanna help me out here?”
Grudgingly, Thea slid her butt off his thighs and settled sideways against the widely curved arm of the deep, overstuffed chair. Her long, slender legs made a bridge over his lap. This conciliatory gesture was balanced by the arms Thea folded somewhat defiantly across her chest. She gave him a challenging, narrowed-eye glance. “You better make this good, Mitchell.”
He didn’t know if he was up to it. “Do I get any kind of handicap on account of I’m drunk?”
Thea considered that. “I’ll give you some leeway with the wording, but I’m not budging on the degree of sincerity.”
“Deal.” Mitch took a deep breath and exhaled on a thread of sound. When he finally spoke it was more to himself than to Thea. “No problem. I can do grovel.”
Careful not to smile, Thea waited him out.
“I am most deeply sorry,” he said. “Humbly sorry. Really, truly sorry. If I had their number, I would call back those words. If I had a receipt, I’d return ’em to the service desk. If I had a—”
“Hammered,” she said softly. “You’re hammered.”
“Yeah.” He gave her a slightly loopy smile. “Yeah, I am. Sincerely so.”
Thea unfolded her arms, turned slightly, and let herself relax more comfortably in the crook of his shoulder. She closed her eyes. Mitch’s breathing was quiet and even and sometimes it ruffled her hair.
“Thea?”
“Hmm?”
“Your dad never said that.”
She smiled a little. “I know.”
“Not those exact words.”
“I know, Mitch. He doesn’t talk like that.”
Mitch rested his cheek against Thea’s silky hair. “I was paraphrasing.”
“Paraphrasing.”
He nodded. “Communicating the gist of it.”
“I know what paraphrasing means,” she said. “It’s the why of it I don’t understand. My father said I was still sleeping with Joel ...” Thea lifted her head enough to look at Mitch. “Did you believe him?”
“Actually, he said you were still
in love with Joel.”
With no hesitation, Thea repeated the same question. “Did you believe him?”
He didn’t say anything immediately. The pause was not dictated by a need to arrive at the right response, only the truthful one. As it happened, the truth surprised him. “I suppose I did,” he said finally. “I sure as hell reacted like I did.”
Thea rested her head in the curve of his neck and shoulder again. “Good answer,” she said softly. “Do you need to hear some sort of denial from me or can you work it out on your own?”
Mitch’s neurons weren’t exactly firing in sync, but this wasn’t differential calculus. The math was pretty simple. “Your daddy likes Joel Strahern and he doesn’t like me.”
“Close enough,” Thea said. “You do okay for someone plied with drinks all evening.”
He took another stab. “Your daddy dislikes Joel less than he dislikes me.”
“In a nutshell.” Thea rubbed Mitch’s chest lightly. “It’s not at all personal. He’s always been of the opinion that I should marry one of the Fosters. Cement the partnership. It seems vaguely incestuous, if you ask me. Hank is like an older brother. Annoying. Protective. Helpful. Familiar. It was a relief for both of us when he finally married. Evidently there was some pressure from his father as well. He has two brothers, neither of whom has any real interest in the agency—or me.” She sighed. “My father has convinced himself that he was warming up to Joel. It only required that I break the engagement and deep-six the wedding plans for him to have that epiphany. What did you say to him anyway? He wouldn’t have blurted out that I was still in love with Joel if he wasn’t provoked.”
Mitch shrugged. “Don’t remember exactly.”
Thea didn’t believe him but she let it pass. “He means well, Mitch. He really does. It’s another one of those things I’m beginning to understand. It never occurred to me in all the years that I’ve tried to win his approval, that he might have been trying to win mine.”
“That’s why he came back now, isn’t it?” Mitch asked. “In time for Father’s Day.”
She nodded. “I think so. I’m not sure I ever knew how much stock he put in the day.”