by Jo Goodman
Except for the small vertical crease between her brow hinting that she understood, Thea’s expression was perfectly blank. “I don’t know what—”
“That’s beneath you,” he cut in. “You know very well what I’m saying. For God’s sake, Thea, let me at least apologize.”
In the act of pulling her bag and purse from the backseat, Thea paused. “I meant it when I said I don’t want an apology, Mitch. I told you what I was and I made a point of asking you not to forget.” She shrugged lightly, putting effort into carelessness. “I just didn’t anticipate it being thrown back in my face, is all. It’s a good thing to know it can happen.” Thea slung her purse over her shoulder and clutched the bag under one arm. “Thanks for the lift.” She hopped down, sank halfway to her knees in snow, and still managed to smile brightly. “Bye.”
Mitch almost recoiled as the door was slammed, if not in his face, then close enough to feel like it. He sat where he was and watched Thea make her way to the front door. It wasn’t the graceful exit she might have wished for. The snow was too deep for her to do anything but make an awkward march up the sidewalk. She fumbled in her purse for the key, finding it only after a prolonged search that frustrated her enough to drop-kick the overnight bag. Mitch was careful not to smile, certain that if she turned back and saw him she’d only be provoked by it. Even after she disappeared inside the house, Mitch remained in the driveway considering his options.
He could go after her, of course, but it was doubtful that she’d let him in at this point. More likely, if he hung around in her driveway too long, she or a neighbor would call the police. He had his cell phone in his jacket pocket. It was tempting to call her but too easy for her to hang up or simply not pick up. Just as important, Mitch wasn’t at all clear about what he wanted to say to her; it was more that he wasn’t ready to say good-bye.
It bothered him most that she wouldn’t let him apologize. He had been so out of line saying those things to her. Just thinking about the words he’d hurled at her made him squirm uncomfortably. She’d taken it on the chin, not even flinching from the flailing he’d given her, but he knew he’d hurt her. It was more than the words he’d flung at her head; it was the fact that he had flung them. Thea had trusted him with something important and personal about herself and at the first opportunity, he had used that knowledge to shame and disrespect her.
So what was it that he wanted by making the apology? It seemed pretty clear to him that he was seeking absolution for himself, not for the words he’d used. Thea had known it, too—long before he had—and that was why she wasn’t willing to hear him out. She wasn’t going to play priest to his sinner.
He considered what she’d said that triggered his outburst. “You’re not thinking I could take them?” He’d thought she was trying to avoid accepting any responsibility for the children in a tit for tat manner: if he couldn’t take the children, then neither could she. But it wasn’t that at all. She’d been trying to tell him that if he didn’t assume responsibility, she wouldn’t be allowed to. Thea was trying to warn him in that single alarming sentence what was in store for Emilie and the twins. Her mind had been racing ahead to all the possibilities while his own thoughts were mired in cataloging his inadequacies. Every time he made noises about not being able to handle his new role as a parent, Thea panicked. Not because she didn’t want the children, Mitch was finally realizing, but because she was convinced she couldn’t have them.
Swearing under his breath, Mitch jammed the SUV into reverse, released the brake, and backed out of Thea’s driveway with enough speed that he fishtailed once he hit the icy street.
He wanted his life back, the one where he didn’t have to think about school bus schedules and lunch money and the tooth fairy. The one where he could ask a woman to spend the night sans guilt. The one that didn’t have a cussing jar, refrigerator magnets, and naked Barbies underfoot. He wanted the life that he had when he could put a gun away and not think about it again, when he could put bullets in a crayon box because no one would think to look for them there.
He wanted ...
Mitch stopped. His chest felt tight, his eyes gritty. He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a car sitting behind him, waiting for him to move. Before he could press the gas, the driver tooted his horn. With mock cheerfulness, Mitch flipped him off.
Yep, that was the life he wanted, all right, the one where mild annoyances could be answered by posting the bird and damning the consequences. Stepping lightly on the gas, he glanced in the mirror again and this time he saw that in addition to the driver there were two boys in the backseat.
He had just flipped off someone’s father.
The epiphany for Mitch was that along with the tips of his ears reddening and the ruddy flush that colored his complexion, there was an undeniable sense of shame. He imagined trying to explain his behavior to Emilie and the boys, and just as difficult, explaining away the behavior of someone else doing the same to him.
It didn’t matter about the life he wanted; this was the one he had. The one where he thought about his actions from a child’s perspective. The one where bicycles blocked doorways, where a sleepover with the opposite sex meant seven of Emilie’s friends were crashing in the living room. The one where he owned an SUV, made sure there was something green to eat at dinner, and checked the rating of every CD, movie, and TV program for violence, language, and sexual content. This was the life where he kissed warm foreheads and drew the covers up small, snuggling bodies and listened to prayers that asked God to make sure their parents’ spirits were having a wonderful time in heaven.
It was a good life. A great life, really.
Mitch felt the pressure in his chest ease. He could do this. He could. Whatever the reason, it no longer felt as if he was trying to convince himself of the truth of it.
Rosie sat at Thea’s kitchen table with her feet propped on the chair beside her. She had a cup of black decaf coffee and a short stack of Oreos in front of her. Thea watched, fascinated, as Rosie dunked an Oreo into her coffee and pulled it through the hot liquid in a figure-eight pattern. She seemed to know exactly the right moment to pull it out to get maximum saturation without cookie collapse. It was remarkable.
Rosie plopped the entire Oreo in her mouth and sucked the coffee out as the cookie melted on her tongue. Her smile was beatific. “Manna,” she said. She waved a hand, dismissing the attention to herself and asked Thea, “So what are you going to do?”
Thea shrugged. “Not a thing. At least not right away. I don’t know when I’ll be ready to talk to him again.”
“You think he’s really changing his mind about taking the kids?”
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I hope not.” Her features softened. “You should see him with them, Rosie. He makes it look easy. Kathy and Gabe knew something when they asked him to look out for their kids.”
“Oh,” Rosie scoffed, “and they asked you because the children needed exposure to the dark side? I don’t think so. If you feel strongly that the kids should be with Mitch, then you’re going to have to talk to him again, Thea. And soon. The hearing’s when? A few weeks from now?”
“April 17.”
“Then you have time to convince him.”
Thea’s expression was patently skeptical. “I gave it my best shot before I left him. And then there was his crack about me not worrying that I’ll have to do more than write him a check or screw him. That still stings. He thinks that I’m trying to avoid responsibility when I’m actually trying to take some.”
One of Rosie’s brows lifted and her eyes gleamed. “Yeah. About the screwing part ... that would be taking responsibility, how?”
Thea’s forearm was resting on the table. With a dramatic little moan she dropped her head against it and left it there.
“That’s what I thought,” Rosie said, grinning. “Robby got a kick out of your message. Sympathy sex. He liked that. Wishes he could get himself some. Of course I’d have to feel sorry for him first an
d that’s not gonna happen.”
Thea lifted her head enough to look at Rosie with one eye. “You torture that man.”
“Uh-huh.” She paused a beat. “So ... was it good?”
Sitting up again, Thea nodded. “Better than good.” Her voice softened. “It felt special.” She held up her hand before Rosie launched into waterboarding mode. “That’s all I’m saying. I’m not even certain what I think. I didn’t plan it when I took off my engagement ring, but you and I know I opened myself up to the possibility.”
“I still think you need to talk to him.”
“Later,” Thea said softly. “Much later.”
Rosie abruptly cut to the chase. “And in the meantime, what are you going to do about the need for speed?” She stopped Thea’s immediate denial and went on bluntly. “I know you weren’t looking through Mitch’s medicine cabinet for speeders, but if he’d had something in there to take the edge off—something in the Valium family, for instance—that was pretty damn close, Thea.”
“I called you.”
“After you had gone searching. Next time, get me before you do that. And if I’m not in, call a backup.”
“I don’t have a backup.”
“What you have are excuses. Get a backup. Get two. And start thinking about how you’re going to handle yourself the next time Mitch blindsides you. It’ll happen and if your knee-jerk response is to go rummaging through medicine cabinets, you’re gonna be in trouble faster than you can say benzodiazepine. You got that?”
Thea stared at her. Rosie hadn’t waggled her finger once but that gesture would have been overkill for the lecture she’d just delivered. “I’ve got it,” she said quietly.
“Good. Want an Oreo?”
The conference room at Foster and Wyndham was rectangular-shaped with a dark walnut table large enough to fit twelve people comfortably around it and still have space for a row of chairs against the wall on two sides. A bank of windows filled the outer wall and a screen for presentations had been permanently fixed to the wall adjacent to it.
At the moment the screen was filled with a blank blue field, the same image that was currently on Thea’s laptop. Six of the twelve seats around the table were occupied. Hank Foster slouched in one of the chairs against the wall. He wasn’t wearing sunglasses this afternoon. Today he had on his antennae, a headband with two springs that coiled at sixty-degree angles from his thinning hairline and sported a miniature basketball at the end of each. Every time he moved his head, the springs wobbled and wavered so the basketballs arced like foul shots toward an invisible net.
March Mayhem. Glancing over at Hank, Thea shook her head, amusement tempering her mildly disbelieving smile. Last year she had been wearing the crown when three out of her four picks had made it through the Sweet Sixteen all the way to the Final Four. This year Hank was on top with only two of his picks in the last round while all of her college teams had tanked early in the NCAA regionals. No one in the agency seemed in a position to steal victory from him.
“It’s not nice to gloat. That looks better on me anyway.” She took the time to elicit a positive response from her creative Blue Team by making eye contact with each member in turn. “There you have it, Hank.”
“Yeah, but what do they know?” He waved toward the big blue screen. “What you have up there now is about as effective as what came before it. I don’t think you’ve licked this Shine and Shield thing yet.” He looked around the room. “Anyone here think we’re really ready to approach Carver Chemical with this yet?” No one said a word. “That’s what I thought.” He stood and headed for the door, the twin basketballs bobbling as he walked. “Don’t forget. Final Four this weekend. Roundball party’s at my house. Kids, spouses, and insignificant others welcome as long as they know the game’s played in halves, not quarters.” Hank shut the door behind him.
Five uncertain faces turned immediately to Thea at the head of the table. They were like grade school students, she thought, looking to her for permission to go to recess. Thea swiveled back and forth slowly in her chair, her head tilted to one side as she considered them. “I’m not going to say you can’t go,” she said. “But don’t think Hank won’t be looking for something brilliant from you during time-outs.” A collective groan greeted this announcement. “Sorry. Sure, he looks like our resident alien in that getup, but you know he wants a real shot at this account.”
Thea gave them a slight, sympathetic smile as they filed out of the room. “Shut the door,” she called to the last one out. When they were gone, she kicked off her shoes and put her feet up on a nearby chair. She slumped in her seat, swiveling a few degrees so that she could see the screen easily when she turned her head. With her right hand, she tapped a few keys on the laptop and reviewed the presentation the Blues had put together. It wasn’t any more impressive on a second go-through. Worse, it was uninspiring.
It wasn’t that they hadn’t made some decent attempts at showing the product in attention-grabbing fashion. Shine and Shield did not exactly lend itself to a sexy approach, but that had been tried. Humor. Straight. Standard. Functional. New product design. Celebrity. Cartoon. Music. One of Thea’s favorites so far had been of a young mother using her Shine and Shield bottle like a microphone, rocking her way through a catchy pop number while she wiped down her kitchen counter, unperturbed by the mashed fruit her highchair-bound audience was catapulting in her direction. It had humor, youth, product function, and the possibility of some rousing backbeats.
But Hank was right; it wouldn’t get them Carver Chemical.
Thea lifted her feet and let her chair swivel toward the window. The blinds had been pulled to cut out most of the sunlight so their presentation was sharp and clear on the screen. There was still a hint of the bright, cloudless afternoon through small linear breaks in the slats. What would she be doing if she weren’t here? she wondered. Where would she be?
She glanced at her watch. Three-twenty. The vision of herself standing on a street corner in Connaugh Creek, waiting for the approach of the No. 83 bus was so powerful that Thea could actually feel the pavement under her feet and the afternoon sunshine on her face. She’d never met the twins’ bus before, didn’t know any of the mothers who would also be there, but she knew about No. 83 from Case’s account last night during their phone call. A push and shove match between a few of the older children had made quite an impression on the twins, especially the part where someone named Ben Henderson got a nose bleed and dripped real blood on Grant’s book bag. Pretty exciting stuff, she’d told him—and meant it. Wished she had been there—and she’d meant that, too.
Thea massaged the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, closing her eyes briefly. This other vision of herself was startling. She’d never imagined herself doing anything but a professional career, yet in the two weeks since she’d last seen Mitch, the children figured largely in her recurring daydreams. Her recurring night dreams, on the other hand, were better left in the bedroom. It only required a fleeting vision of herself and Mitch together for Thea to have a physical response. Thinking about it now was enough to make her damp between her thighs.
Moaning softly, Thea jumped to her feet and padded over to the window. She twisted a wand on one set of blinds and let more sunshine into the conference room. She didn’t move away from the light but stood there instead, lifting her head and feeling some of the warmth graze her face and throat. Behind her, she heard the door open. She didn’t move.
“There’s a call for you, Ms. Wyndham,” Tamika said. Her hair beads clicked musically as she poked her head farther into the room. “It’s Mr. Baker. Should I put it through?”
“Yes, that’s fine,” Thea said without turning. There was a pause and the door didn’t close and Tamika’s hair beads didn’t clack.
“Are you all right, Ms. Wyndham?”
Thea’s arms were folded under her breasts. She let them drop to her sides. “Fine, Tamika. Put the call through.” This time she heard the receptionist take her
leave. A few moments later the phone on the conference table beeped softly. Thea impatiently dashed the wetness from her eyes and left her sentinel position at the window to take the call.
“Hello, Mitch. Is everything okay?” It was how she’d been responding to every one of his calls for the last two weeks. Focus on the children. Keep the discussion steady and about what they were doing, what they needed. Nothing personal. No chitchat. If he tried to do it differently—and he always did—she cut him off, politely but firmly.
“We’re fine, Thea.”
She hadn’t been asking about him and he knew it, but he found little ways to insert himself into the conversation. For her own part, Thea shied away from any personal references. She had managed to get her car from the garage in Connaugh Creek without any help from Mitch, though she suspected the fact the mechanic had not asked for her insurance deductible payment had everything to do with Mitch making that payment himself. The Volvo was running smoothly again, even more quietly than before her accident, and all the new bodywork had removed the smaller dings and scratches she had never bothered to have repaired before.
Two days after she had returned home, still uncertain that she was ready to put her position about the children’s welfare in front of Mitch again, she’d heard from his lawyer. Wayne wanted to know the name of her new attorney since he’d learned she’d fired Avery Childers. At first it felt like a slap in the face that Mitch was starting something through legal means that he hadn’t discussed with her, then her cooler head prevailed and she knew that whatever he was doing was because of Wayne’s advice. She’d given Wayne her lawyer’s name and a phone number, exchanged some pleasantries, and hung up without knowing anything about Mitch’s decision regarding the kids. That came the following day when her attorney informed her that Mitch was petitioning for permanent physical custody of the children and shared legal custody of them with Thea.
