Flirting With Pete: A Novel

by Barbara Delinsky

  Caroline seemed fine. She was positioned differently from how she had been the night before, and while Casey wanted to think she had moved on her own, she knew better. The nurses turned her every few hours. She was on her back now, having breakfast. A feeding tube hung from the IV pole, letting gravity carry nutrients directly into her stomach.

  Casey’s own stomach lurched. She didn’t know why. She had seen this before, more times than she could count, so it wasn’t revulsion or dismay or even surprise. After the initial shock of it three years before, she had come to take these meals for granted.

  But something had changed. The doctor thought Caroline was trying to die, and Casey couldn’t shake the thought of that possibility. It left her feeling empty and alone, left her thinking about the closeness she and her mother should have had as adults, left her unutterably sad. She wanted to relegate this shadowy version of Caroline to her room, but the door wouldn’t stay shut. Casey was desperate for her mother to open intelligent eyes, to speak, to smile.

  She didn’t stay long. She was too wet and too scared. After standing by Caroline’s bed for the briefest minute, she retraced her steps and went back out into the rain.

  Oppressively heavy and warm, the weather fit her mood. She ran hard and fast, letting raindrops mix with sweat and tears until her legs screamed. Only then did she slow to a saner pace. It took her more reasonably through the Public Garden, down Charles and up Chestnut to the alley that led to her car.

  The Miata wasn’t alone. Jordan’s Jeep was beside it.

  Panting from the run, Casey bent over, put her hands on her knees, and struggled to catch her breath. Rain dripped from the bill of her cap, from the trees, from the sky. She straightened, tipped her head back, and let the rain wash her face.

  Her breathing steadied, but the emptiness lingered. Hungry? She probably was, but she couldn’t think of eating. The hollow inside went way beyond food.

  She didn’t have to use her key on the latch. Jordan had left it open. Slipping through, she relatched the door, but it was a minute before she spotted him. He was off on the left past the potting shed, half hidden under hemlocks whose lowest limbs cleared his head by barely a foot. Though he was sheltered there, it looked as if he hadn’t been under cover for long. His hair was spiked with rain, his tank top and shorts generously spattered.

  Today the tank top was gray. He stood with a hand on one shoulder, his arm angling up across his chest. The other arm hung by his side. The shorts were dark and loose, and hit mid-thigh. Below them, his legs were well formed, very straight.

  There was nothing casual about him. With his eyes on her, dark and wide, he looked alarmed.

  No, Casey decided, not alarmed. Apprehensive.

  No, she decided, not apprehensive. Expectant.

  Suddenly, all of the doors in the house of her life closed except one. That door was open and inviting. Jordan was vibrantly masculine. The chemistry between them was strong. She had felt its pull from the start, and it had only grown.

  He was her father’s gardener. That should have stopped her, but it didn’t. Actually, the fact of what he was made him all the more appealing. In that instant, turning her back on helplessness and grief, she couldn’t think of anything better than having a grand time for herself at Connie’s expense.

  Then she stopped thinking of Connie, too, because the tug at her insides was stronger than even that. Holding Jordan’s gaze, she crossed the garden to where he stood.

  “Is everything okay?” he asked, as if he had known where she was.

  She didn’t answer, simply brought her body to his, linking her hand to the one that hung by his side. She didn’t doubt for a minute that he felt what she did. She knew. She just knew. When she lifted her face, his hand was right there to remove her hat, long fingers cupping her head. His mouth met hers without an ounce of timidity.

  Casey gave herself up to the moment. She didn’t think, didn’t analyze or fantasize. She focused on pure sensation— the heat of his mouth when he deepened the kiss, the simmer of his tongue in long lonely spots. She felt a melting inside when he began to stroke her breasts, felt a greater satisfaction— and need— when he pulled off her singlet and used his hands, then his mouth there, and suddenly she was desperate for the totality of it. She touched every part of him she could, pushed clothing aside and touched more.

  Somewhere in the midst of it she heard his voice, low and hoarse. “Is there a reason we shouldn’t do this— boyfriend, birth control, whatever?”

  She couldn’t think of a thing, not with her insides aching so badly and the sensation of solidity and fullness that his body offered. It was all she could do to peel off her wet shorts while he did his, and the rush was worth it. Jordan inside her was the ultimate sensation. Yes, there was solidity and fullness, but there was also wholeness.

  Later, she would recall the shifting of positions, back and forth and around, but that was a thought and at the moment she was into sensation. That sensation of wholeness altered her need, changing the urge to do to the urge to be. It slowed her, suspended her so that she hung there in the glory of his possession, in the richness of ragged breathing and rain on foliage, the solidity of a muscled body and the scrape of a beard, the scent of wet man and trees and earth. Just as with yoga breathing she stretched beyond the norm, so, too, now she opened more and more, opened without restraint, offering every part of her to his hands, his limbs, his mouth, tongue, and sex, until her body erupted in orgasm. The sensation of it was deeper and richer than she had imagined possible.

  Contentment. That was the first concrete thought she had. Sitting there on Jordan’s lap as he sat against the tree— not caring or knowing how they came to that particular pose— she was utterly content.

  Her arms looped his neck. Her forehead rested against his stubbled cheek. She drew in one breath after the other, gradually longer and more steady. He remained inside her through those lengthening minutes, no longer erect but very much there.

  When she finally took a deeper breath and lifted her head, he was looking at her. His eyes held more of the same richness that she had felt so strongly, but the force of it frightened her now. She didn’t know this man. She had never before had sex as impulsively. She didn’t regret it; she felt too good. But he was truly an unknown.

  Not wanting to deal with that reality, not wanting anything to put a damper on the pleasure she had felt, and sensing he wanted to speak, she covered his mouth with her fingertips. She didn’t know what he might say, but she didn’t want words at all. She let her eyes tell him that, and she felt him concede. Only then did she remove her hand and ease off him. Standing up, she pulled on her clothes as quickly as she could, though she was slowed by their wetness and the dirt that clung to her skin. He stayed where he was, watching her with increasing laziness, either perfectly comfortable in his nakedness or just exhausted from the sex.

  Whatever, his scrutiny was a turn-on. She made herself presentable, made ready to leave the cover of the hemlocks, even backed off toward the path. Then she stopped, reversed direction, and returned to straddle his legs. Lowering herself to his lap again, she slid her fingers into his hair and held his head for a final kiss. It lingered, at the same time heady and content. She might have stayed there a while longer, might even have taken her clothes off again for the sheer pleasure of being naked against him. But Meg would be coming soon. And Casey had clients to see. And she didn’t want him to think she was in his thrall.

  With a final peck, she used his shoulders for leverage, pushed herself up, and went to the edge of the hemlock cover. Without looking back, she took a quick breath and raced off into the rain toward the house.

  Dripping wet and streaked with dirt, she went to the service entrance which was cleverly hidden away in the corner, camouflaged by ivy. She had barely put her key to the lock there, though, when she withdrew the key, tipped up her chin, and went around to the office door. She wanted Connie to see how she looked and know what she’d done.

 
; Opening the screen, she released the lock and entered the office. She couldn’t quite get herself to muck up the carpet, though, so she walked around it, on the wood floor.

  If Connie was appalled, he didn’t let on. The wood didn’t so much as creak. Nor did she feel even a hint of ghostly outrage as she went gingerly across the room. She did feel guilt leaving wet footprints on the floor, though. So she pried off her running shoes and socks, ran up to the laundry room off the kitchen, and left them to dry. On a whim, she left her shirt and shorts there, too, and ran naked up to her room.

  She wasn’t ready to shower yet, though. Her body still hummed of Jordan. Wrapping herself in a towel, she left the bedroom and went down the hall. Feeling bold and defiant, she pushed Connie’s door open wide. She didn’t quite cross the threshold, but for the first time she took a long look.

  The room was really quite handsome. It wasn’t cluttered with furniture, but the pieces that were there were large and strong.

  Angus sat in the middle of the carpet, watching her, waiting; suddenly, boldness and defiance seemed silly. As always, seeing the cat, she melted. The poor guy was lonely. He wanted someone to love him, just as she did.

  “Poor Angus.” Holding the towel closed, she crouched down and held out a hand. “Come here, big guy. Come over here, and let me give you a good morning scratch.” Angus stared at her with unblinking green eyes. She made a clicking sound as Jordan had done. She wiggled her fingers. She wished she had a kitty treat to offer and vowed to find out if Meg kept any in the pantry. “Come here, sweet kitty,” she whispered and inched forward until her toes bumped the threshold.

  She remained crouched low to the ground, holding the towel closed, eyes locked with the cat’s until curiosity got the best of her, and she looked around. Behind Angus was the bed. Beside the bed was a nightstand. What she had initially labeled a pair of dressers were actually a pair of armoires standing on opposite sides of the room. The sitting area consisted of a leather sofa and an overstuffed chair. Both looked decidedly worn.

  She wondered if they had come from an earlier time in Connie’s life. Maybe she could trace their origin. That would be interesting.

  Actually, the whole room was interesting, a gold mine of possibility in the scavenger hunt for who Connie was. If she wanted to find a personal journal or an address book, exploring these closets and drawers was a no-brainer.

  But not yet. She had to explore the cartons upstairs first.

  That was the plan. Before she got to the boxes, though, she had to drive to the condo and come back with more clothes, see a day’s worth of clients, and handle a raft of administrative chores, all of which demanded her full attention.

  She welcomed that. She didn’t want her mind wandering to Caroline, because she had absolutely no control over what would happen there. Nor did she want to think about Jordan, oddly, for much the same reason. Her body had taken over down in the garden. She hadn’t had any say.

  Should she have done what she did? Of course not. But prudence had never played a strong role in her life.

  It helped that Jordan was gone by the time she finished showering. Had he been wandering through the house tending the indoor plants while it rained, she might have had trouble clearing her mind of what had just happened under the hemlocks.

  The only other person in the house now, though, was Meg. On impulse, Casey asked her to come along to the condo. After the fact, she realized that what little space she had in the small Miata was better saved for clothes, but Meg had lit up so with the invitation, that she didn’t have the heart to rescind it.

  Meg’s enthusiasm proved to be a godsend in keeping Casey distracted. She loved the small elevator that took them to Casey’s condo, loved Casey’s tiny galley kitchen, loved the cinder blocks that raised Casey’s bed off the floor. She loved Casey’s clothes, marveling over a silk blouse, a pair of linen pants, a pair of high-heeled sandals. At one point, when Casey stood at the closet trying to decide what to take, Meg pulled out a pair of linen overalls.

  “These are gor-geous,” she said breathlessly.

  Casey smiled. “They’re yours.”

  “Mine?”

  “I haven’t worn them in years. They looked neglected, which was why your hand went right to them. They spoke to you, Meg.” She took out the overalls and handed them to Meg, who was grateful and so clearly touched that Casey gave her other things as well— a lace camisole, a tank top to wear under the overalls, three different hair scrunchies.

  Meg immediately put one of the scrunchies around her ponytail. Casey thought it was perfect, and told her so. Though the compliment came from the heart, what she got in return, in addition to pleasure, was devotion. Meg couldn’t do enough for her— carrying things down to the car, packing the trunk, then sitting in the passenger’s seat during the ride home with her lap piled high— and then insisting that she would unpack, iron what needed ironing, and put everything into Casey’s room in an organized fashion.

  Casey wasn’t used to being waited on. By the time they returned to Beacon Hill, though, her first client was about to arrive, so she took Meg up on her offer.

  Letting go of that chore was heaven. Clearing her mind of Jordan, of Caroline, of Connie, even of Angus, she focused so intently on work that she was totally sharp. Some days she struggled to find the right questions to ask; other days she didn’t ask questions at all, but just listened. This day she was inspired.

  Her ten o’clock client was suffering from postpartum depression. Casey had previously focused on the client’s disdain for her mother, who had apparently grown heavier, more unkempt, and less interesting with each of the six children she had borne. Today, Casey asked what the client’s father had said about her mother’s deterioration. Bingo. The father had not been kind. There had been verbal abuse, emotional neglect, and infidelity. Casey’s client was terrified of suffering her mother’s fate, now that she was a mother herself.

  Casey’s twelve o’clock was a woman much her own age who had held three different jobs and done well in each until a promotion was imminent, at which point she committed a blunder that killed the promotion. She was sabotaging herself. She admitted that. She freely discussed her fear of piling more responsibility onto a life that already included juggling children, a household, and a career. This day, Casey asked about her husband— not what he did for a living, because they had been over that, but what his chances of advancement were and what he earned. It turned out that the client’s income already matched that of her husband, that she would earn more than he did if she was promoted, and that she had already felt her husband’s resentment that her career might outshine his.

  Casey’s three o’clock, a woman in her seventies, had been emotionally paralyzed since the death of her husband. Through four previous sessions, she had described how much she missed him, how competent and caring he was, how dominant he had been. Casey had assumed that the woman was intimidated by the thought of taking care of herself. Today, though, broaching a subject they had only discussed in passing, she asked about the woman’s children. There were three, all consumed by their own lives— and the floodgate of panic that Casey’s question opened suggested that the woman was doing what she felt was necessary to get their attention and involve them more in her life.

  Three breakthroughs in one day was something. Casey didn’t know whether her insights had to do with physical contentment, because that did linger. Much as she tried not to think about Jordan, a move here or there brought a twinge in her thigh muscles or the awareness of tenderness in her breasts.

  Then again, her inspiration could have come from Connie whispering hints in her ear. He might have been shocked by what she had done with Jordan, but she did like to think he would have approved of what she had done with her clients.

  She rewarded herself with a single butterscotch candy. She took off the wrapper, dropped it in the wastebasket under the desk just as Connie must have done, and popped the candy into her mouth. She sucked it until it was little m
ore than a thin bar. Then, thinking that a man as compulsively neat as Connie probably sucked his until there was absolutely nothing left, she bit hers apart, chewed the pieces, and swallowed.

  It was a good end to a good workday, which was why she was feeling buoyant when Brianna arrived. They went right out to the garden; how not to, when it was so lush? Though the rain had stopped, the air remained humid and thick, intensifying the scent of hemlock, lilac, and earth. Meg was gone for the day, but she had left behind a tray of grilled salmon focaccia sandwiches. Brianna carried the tray; Casey carried a towel and soda cans.

  Casey toweled off the patio table and two chairs so that Brianna could set down the tray, but Brianna was distracted. She was looking at the flowers, wearing an expression that said she saw not a one.

  “Bria?”

  Brianna’s eyes snapped to hers.

  “Want to put the tray down?”

  Brianna did, then sank into a chair.

  Casey sat down across from her. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  Brianna eyed her glumly. “I need to end this.”

  Casey knew she was talking about Jamie. There had been one too many little barbs of late. The pattern was starting to feel familiar. “Why?” she asked, popping the top on a can of Coke and passing it to Brianna.

  “He wants me to be something I’m not.”

  “So you say. He thinks you should be in private practice. For the money?”

  “No. He knows I could end up earning less than I am now. He’s not greedy for money, just for me. He wants my time. He wants my company when he travels for business.”

  “Some women would die for that.”

  “Would you? Of course not. You have a life. You have a career. You value your independence. So do I, but Jamie, bless him, wants a corporate wife.”

  “Has he said that?”

  “Not in as many words, but he’s thinking it, I know he is. Casey, he talks about kids. Kids. And we aren’t even engaged.”