A Charmed Place

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  He fumbled where her zipper should be until he realized that her jeans had a button fly. He whispered hoarsely, "Are you kidding me?"

  Her laugh was dizzy as she hurried to explain. "The jeans I was wearing got sooty from the fire. This is the only other flattering pair I have."

  He groaned and said, "Maddie, you could be wearing a sackcloth for all I care—as long as it had a zipper."

  They ended up stripping themselves of their own jeans, then sat on the side of the bed in their underthings.

  This part was harder for Maddie. Before the baby, she used to think that she had a decent shape: fairly firm, reasonably curved, not too much or too little of anything. After Tracey, all that changed.

  "I'm not a kid anymore," she felt constrained to remind him,

  "Who is?" he answered with a wry smile. He dropped his chin to his chest and pointed to the back of his head. "See that thin spot?"

  "Where?" she said, fanning through his hair with her fingers. "I don't see any thin spot."

  He lifted his head back up and said, "When you see my brush in the morning, you'll know," which made her feel overjoyed at the prospect.

  The bra she was wearing unsnapped in the front; she was able to see his face as he unfastened it and beheld her breasts in broad daylight for the first time in a long, long time.

  "They're lower now," she said with a wince. "I've nursed a child."

  "They're a woman's now," he answered softly, and leaned over with something like reverence to kiss the pale skin of each breast in turn.

  "It gets worse as you go down," she added, trying to sound gay.

  He laughed and said, "We'll see about that," as he guided her onto her back. He slipped off her panties as she pressed on with her extended apology for not being twenty years old anymore. "I had to have an emergency C-section. See?" she asked, patting her stomach above and below the scar.' 'Maybe you didn't notice. The top part somehow doesn't match the bottom part the way it used to."

  Dan ran his forefinger with exquisite tenderness along the line of her scar. "A badge of honor," he whispered.

  "Well, now you've seen all of me," she said, oddly elated by the fact. "Am I still waterbed material?"

  "Oh, my darling, are you ever," he murmured in a voice that sounded eminently satisfied to her.

  Maddie was aware that he had changed little. Some of the black hairs on his chest had gone gray, and maybe—maybe—he was a little thicker in the waist. He was no longer lanky, in any case. Solid? Yes, that was the word that came to mind. And sexy; that was the other word.

  He bent over her on all fours and she was very, very aware that one part of his anatomy was still exactly the same.

  "What do you want?'' he asked in that same husky voice. "Tell me."

  "Dan, you know," she said archly.

  "Tell me."

  Shameless now, she closed her eyes and said with a sigh, "Start at the top ... work your way down."

  "Consider it done."

  "Do you want me here?" he murmured, teasing and kissing her breast until her breathing came faster and shorter and finally dissolved in one long, ragged sigh. "Do you want me here?" he said, sliding his tongue to a spot between her breasts, inhaling her scent with a deep sigh of pleasure, then drawing lazy circles with his tongue. "Or ... maybe here," he said, moving deftly to her other breast.

  "Oh ... oh, either is good ... both are ... good," she said, rippling in response, amazed that she still had the capacity to lie there with no other desire than to soak up the pleasure he was willing—eager—to give her.

  "Wait, the little spot inside your elbow; I almost forgot about that spot," he said, going off on a side trip down memory lane with a kissing caress.

  And so it went, with him revisiting every charmed place and secret haunt of her youth, marveling that they were all still there, just the way he remembered. He stopped in at her navel, went back to her midriff, wandered back down again, and was delighted to rediscover an easily missed spot high on the inside of her thigh.

  And Maddie? She was like a burbling brook, being rushed along in parts, slowed down in other parts, but aware that every bend and curve was bringing her nearer to her destination. When he focused with his tongue at last on the small nub of flesh between her thighs, making her wild with desire, she knew ... she knew. Rapids and white water, and then over the precipice she went, falling, falling, falling, into a deep, deep pool: a serene, utterly still, totally ... fathomless ... pool.

  She floated in that pool for a small eternity, perfectly content, hardly aware that someone she loved was standing idly on the shore, waiting for her to come out.

  Someone got a little impatient. "Hey, miss," he whispered, touching his lips to hers in a feather-light kiss. "Mind if I join you?"

  Maddie smiled and opened her arms to him, inviting him in. He was her playmate, her lover, her friend from way back. And an excellent guide: no one else knew the way to the pool.

  The kiss she gave him began in simple gratitude but quickly escalated into something ardent. Dan got all of the credit: he had that profound power over her, to know what she wanted more than she knew herself. Stroking her tongue with his, he coaxed her along, breath by breath and sigh by sigh, until he had her panting in his arms again, and then he slid his hand down to her mound, probing the depth beneath with his middle finger.

  "More of this, Maddie?" he asked in a raspy drawl. "Only better? Bigger?"

  "Oh, yes ... yes, yes, yes," she answered, submitting all over again to the profoundly sexual hold he had on her. "Yes."

  He came into her then, sliding easily on the slick of her spend, filling her, driving her forward with the varied pace of his movements, and finally—when he knew she was ready—driving her home, and then collapsing himself on her breast.

  Again she floated, with him this time, in the pool.

  Chapter 24

  "So what did your mother have to say?"

  "She said, as long as the party was supervised."

  "That's all? She left two messages on the machine, and when we got back you were on the phone with her a pretty long time. What about?"

  Tracey made a face and said, "You know Mom. 'Don't do this. Don't do that.' Just the usual."

  "I forgot to ask: Is the party supervised?"

  "Dad! The Wiltons' au pair is going to be there, and Rick Wilton. He's Chris's older brother—way older! But ... I kind of told Mom you'd be there for part of it, too."

  "And how'm I supposed to do that, when you know that I'll be driving to Brookline, doing hours of testing, and then driving all the way back to pick you up? I'll be lucky if you don't end up having to spend the night with the pink flamingos on the lawn while you wait for me."

  Tracey giggled and said, "There aren't any flamingos here, Dad. Stop teasing."

  Her eyes were bright with anticipation as she watched the mob of kids converging on the main house, most in their own cars but some being dropped off by indulgent parents like him.

  Michael lasered in on a model-gorgeous blonde wearing a dress that barely covered her ass. She was standing under the portico and hanging on the arm of some quarterback type.

  The guy, a steroid hulk with a chest fairly bursting through his rugby shirt, was pumping his fist in the air at the rest of his teammates, all of them charging across the lawn at the moment and making animal sounds.

  Michael turned back to the beauty and her beast. "So who's the charming couple?" he asked his daughter.

  Sounding surprised that he didn't know, Tracey said, "That's Frieda, the au pair? And Rick, of course. They are, like, so cool. Frieda came to school once to meet Rick, and we're all like: she's awesome."

  "Are you kidding? You're as awesome as she is," Michael said stoutly.

  "As if!"

  He smiled and said, "Okay, outta the car, Your Awesomeness. I'm late already. Be good, now."

  "Da-ad. You sound like Mom!"

  She wriggled out of the car, slammed the door, and didn't look back. His little girl,
growing up fast. He watched her fall in with a couple of shrieking girlfriends who seemed both much less nervous and much more hyper than Tracey.

  All day, Michael had watched bemused as his daughter prepared for the big event. After their early hit-and-run shopping trip downtown, she'd spent an amazing number of hours silvering her nails and mixing and matching every piece of jewelry she owned with every scrap of clothing.

  As near as he could figure, she hadn't been able to make up her mind, because she walked out of his condo with two earrings in each ear and a dozen bangles on each arm. As for the dress she was wearing, it was too damn short—but still a lot longer than Frieda's. Since Tracey ended up looking more or less like her two girlfriends, Michael assumed that she was happy with her outfit, even if he was not.

  A blaring horn from the car behind him on the circular drive sent Michael hastily throwing the Beemer in gear. He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a snot-nosed dipshit letting out a carload of other snot-nosed dipshits and then peeling rubber trying to impress them with his drag racing skills. Feeling suddenly old, Michael glanced over his shoulder in time to see his daughter enter the doubled-doored entry under the massive portico of the brick colonial.

  She'll be fine, he told himself.

  She'll be fine.

  ****

  A four-car pileup on Route 93 played havoc with Michael's schedule as well as his mood. By the time he pulled into the parking lot at the Brookline Institute, he was in the grip of another crushing headache and feeling downright psychotic.

  Geoffrey Woodbine wasn't pleased.

  "I've been trying to reach you for hours,'' the director said, walking around to his desk and picking up the phone. He punched a button, then waited.

  "I told you," Michael explained, as reasonably as he knew how. "I had to take my daughter to a party. It was vital that she be fashionably late." He stroked his temple. The pain there was relentless.

  "He's here," Woodbine said into the phone. "Give us ten minutes to get it together ... I don't care what you tell them. Ten minutes!" He hung up the phone, then turned to Michael and arched a silver eyebrow.

  "Fashionably late?" he said with an icy stare. "Was that necessary?''

  Michael exploded. "For god's sake, man, don't you remember what it's like to be fourteen? Those things count, you know!"

  Woodbine glanced at the open door to his office, then walked over to close it. In a more jocular voice, he said, "Why didn't you answer you cell, in that case?"

  "I junked it," Michael said.

  Actually, he'd hurled it out the-window of the Beemer after calling Rosedale and having Maddie not pick up. She was there. He knew she was there. She was there with him. She'd monitored the machine, and she hadn't picked up. Were they in the middle of it? Lying in their afterglow? He'd find out. He'd find out, or he'd die trying.

  "Michael? Are you hearing what I'm saying? I am pointing out to you that we have three gentlemen from the Pentagon sitting in a small, very stuffy sender booth and staring at their watches. They will not be returning after today. Michael? They will make their recommendation to fund or not to fund based on the results of today's testing. Do you understand?"

  In fact, Michael had to make a real effort to register what Woodbine was telling him. He looked up in sullen response. "Why bother going through with the test, in that case? It sounds like they've made up their minds not to continue."

  "You're being defeatist, Michael. That is not good. As you know, the last time anyone bothered to check, the CIA had paid consultants over twenty million dollars to try to locate the whereabouts of MIAs, plutonium in North Korea, as well as in Iran, among other missions. What method did these consultants employ? Remote viewing, Michael. As you know.

  "What you do not know," Woodbine went on to say, "is that one of the men sitting in the sender booth used to work in the CIA. It's because of him that this project was funded in the first place. He's more than willing—"

  "To throw our tax dollars around?"

  "Cynicism is counterproductive," Woodbine snapped. "You need to go in there and concentrate. I want you to forget about everything else on your mind," the director added with a meaningful look. "All of it. It's idle distraction. Concentrate. And—just as we've discussed—I'll take care of the rest. Can you do that?"

  Still balking at the do-or-die stakes, Michael said, "It's these drugs, Geoff. They're killing me."

  "Nonsense. The drugs you're taking are natural memory enhancers. Their use is widespread in Europe; the side effects are minimal. I suggest to you that your headaches have nothing to do with the drugs, and—perhaps?—everything to do with your reluctance to carry out your part of our bargain."

  Michael's mood turned hostile again. He wanted to slit Woodbine's throat. He hated him, hated everything about him, from his imperious manner to his clipped, vague accent. "You're full of shit," he said. "I practically black out sometimes."

  "Take the drugs and have them analyzed by a lab, then," Woodbine suggested. "You'll find the ingredients available in health food stores both here and abroad."

  "Oh, sure, have a lab analyze them. And how do I do that between now and the test? Psychokinesis?"

  Michael hated the way he sounded to himself: whining, sneering ... afraid. He wasn't afraid. Whatever else he was capable of, it wasn't fear. He'd come too far, done too much, to bow to fear.

  With a massive effort, he pulled himself back together for the forthcoming test. "Let's go," he said, standing up. "I'm ready."

  Woodbine gave him an appraising look. Laying his hand on Michael's shoulder, he said, "I believe you are. Good."

  They walked together toward the lab, down halls of a building that seemed eerily quiet. "It's like a ghost town in here," Michael quipped, trying to ease the tension he felt.

  Obviously relieved to see the effort, Woodbine smiled and said, "It's Friday evening; they're all at the bars. So—your daughter is at a party," he added, making a connection that Michael didn't care for at all. "They grow up so fast, don't they? I still can't get over how very much she resembles you. A bright girl, quite intuitive. The resemblance is striking, really."

  "So they say," Michael answered, dismissing the subject. He was trying to keep himself focused.

  "And she's staying on the Cape with her mother for the summer?" Woodbine asked pleasantly. "I envy them, getting out of the city for so long. I enjoyed myself last week. Which reminds me. Have you thought about bringing in your daughter for that interview? I've been interested in doing this project, as you know, for well over a year. If only you had allowed me to—well, never mind. But now that the funding is a reality, I need to move immediately on finding suitable subjects for the study."

  "It's up to my ex-wife," Michael found himself saying.

  "And how does she feel about it?"

  "She's my ex-wife, damn it! Didn't you hear me?"

  "I'm sorry," Woodbine said, taken aback. "It was a simple question."

  "It amazes me that you had to ask it! You were at the fund-raiser. Did it look as if Maddie and I were best friends?"

  Woodbine gave him a cool look and said, "I got the distinct impression that there were still feelings between you."

  "Did you! Gee. Maybe you're actually psychic, after all."

  The sneering remark caught Woodbine off guard. He gave Michael a sharp look and said, "Let's just stick to the script, okay?"

  ****

  Fifteen minutes later, Michael was isolated in the test area, hooked up to the EEG, and ready to begin the final remote viewing experiment. In the adjoining room were the targets of the test: fifty photographs of everyday objects scissored at random from a J. C. Penney catalogue and sealed in individual envelopes.

  Michael had wanted to test in early evening because that was the time of day when distractions fell away for him. In early evening he could focus. In early evening, he had a much better chance of imagining the contents of a sealed envelope in another room.

  But it was late evening now. H
e didn't like that, and he was unhappy at his distress. Still, unhappy or not, he had to shut out the negative vibrations. He had to concentrate. Woodbine was absolutely right about that.

  The pad of drawing paper sat on the table in front of him, daunting in its blankness. Three pencils without erasers were lined up like an honor guard alongside the tablet.

  Concentrate.

  He knew that Woodbine, in an effort to pander to the government observers, had departed from normal procedure by letting them—and not the Institute's staff—choose the objects from the catalog and then seal them in the envelopes. Woodbine himself was not present at the time the selections were made, just before Michael's scheduled arrival. Amazing, how that one degree of separation had jolted Michael's confidence.

  Concentrate.

  He could hear Woodbine's voice saying it.

  The test was not complicated. After each envelope was opened, a buzzer was to sound. Michael, alone in the subject enclosure, was to envision the object from the envelope. He was to draw a rough approximation of that object on the pre-numbered sheets of the tablet in front of him. If he was not able to envision the target, he was to "pass" by drawing a line through the sheet.

  Concentrate.

  He tried to sweep away thoughts of the day: Tracey, jumping up and down when he said she could accept the last-minute invitation. Thank you, Daddy, thank you. Maddie on the phone, bothered that Tracey was under his control for the weekend. Remember our pact, Michael; we have to be consistent. The animal sounds of the teammates charging across the lawn. Whoo-whoo-whoo. Maddie on the machine, her voice cool and remote. No one is in now, but if you'll leave your name and number ...

  Concentrate.

  Someone was in her now; who was she kidding?

  Concentrate.

  The buzzer sounded. It caught Michael by surprise. How long had it been? He looked at the clock. He looked at the blank sheet. I'm number one, said the sheet. Guess what I am?

  Concentrate.

  After a fierce effort, too fierce, he began to scrawl a—a what? A tine? A dinner fork?