Family Blessings (32 page)

"You were Greg's friend."

"And that's the first time his name has been mentioned all day long.

Do you realize that?"

She hadn't. Her eyes told him so.

"Hey, don't go guilty on me again. It's a healthy sign, you and me spending an entire day together and all we concentrated on was having fun. I thought we did rather well at it, myself."

"We did. I loved it."

"And you don't think it's significant that we never talked about Greg once?"

"Yes, I do. But it's only been six months since his death, and maybe I'm . . . maybe . .."

"Go on, say it. Maybe you're still going through some grief process and this is part of it."

"Well, maybe it is."

"Maybe. Then again, maybe it's not. And if it is, so what? We're talking about it, it's out in the open. If that's what this is for either one of us, we'll find out soon enough. The glow will wear off and we won't feel so much like being together anymore.

Personally, I don't think that's going to happen though."

"Which will be disastrous, too."

"Why?"

"Because Janice has a crush on you."

"I know that."

She picked her head up off his arm. "You do?"

"I've known that for a long time."

"And you'd still do this with me?"

"I never gave her one iota of encouragement. Ask her."

She laid her head back down and admitted, "I don't have to. She's f already confided in me."

"There, you see? Now what other hang-ups do you have here?"

"You make it so simplistic."

"It is. All I set out to do was lie here for a while and kiss you and enjoy my first Christmas tree, and maybe make the two of us feel a little less lonely for a while. That's pretty simplistic."

His voice turned soft, seductive. "It's just my mouth . .." He moved closer. ". . . on your 7, mouth."

And what an incredible mouth he had. He was so good at using it, suckling her lips, setting his head in motion and encouraging her to do the same. He kissed her the way she hadn't been kissed since courting days, in the lingering, juicy, slow, sexy way that says, If this is what we're sttling for, let's make it good. His sweet blandishments worked. She freed her mind of thought and let sensuality pull her into its lair, following his lead and immersing herself in the texture and taste of him.

Long liquid kisses led to a dearer fit of their bodies down below. He lifted a knee and she made space for it between her own, welcoming the high, hard pressure he exerted as he lifted it against her warmth.

He made a pleasured sound, "Mmm . . . ," and moved his hand up her back, pressing circles on it, touching her nape, her shoulders, riding his palm flat and hard down her vertebrae to the bend of her spine.

It had been so long since she'd lain with a man, fit herself against one, felt his arousal against her stomach. So long since she'd run her hands over firm, hard shoulders, into short, springy hair. His hair--ah--the feel of it was so different from her own, and when she sifted her fingers through it his scent lifted, the peculiar and individual essence she would ever after recognize as his.

It was as he'd said--this was so unutterably good, she had no desire to desist. His moist lips left hers and wandered her face, dropping kisses where they would--upon her cheek, eyebrow, hairline, nose dampening her skin, sometimes letting the tip of his tongue mark its passing. He pressed his mouth to her neck, drew three circles with his tongue, bringing forth the scent of the perfume she'd sprayed there that morning.

At last he pulled back and looked into her face.

She opened her eyes and saw his at close range, with the tree lights reflected in them.

"My, you're good at that," she murmured.

"So are you."

"A little out of practice."

"Wanna practice some more?" He grinned.

"I'd love to . . . but my arm is falling asleep." It had been pinned under him for fifteen minutes.

"I can fix that," he said, and rolled on top of her, putting a hand under her back and plumping her over two inches at a time until he lay flush atop her in the center of the couch.

They studied each other's eyes, searching for consent.

"Lee, I meant it," he whispered. "Just kissing, if that's all you want."

"What I want and what I'll allow myself to do are two different things."

He kissed her mouth, bearing his weight on his elbows, crooking one knee along the side of her hip.

When the kiss ended she twined her arms around his neck and drew him down, his face falling above her shoulder.

She sighed. "Oh, Christopher, you feel so good on me I could stay here all night."

"Good idea," he said, intentionally shattering the spell that was getting too tempting. "Should I call Joey or will you?"

She laughed but her stomach refused to lift beneath his greater weight.

"Laugh some more," he said, muffled, near her ear. "Feels great."

Instead she grew still, closing her eyes and appreciating these minutes of closeness, and the realization that she was still desirable, still sexual, with a man again and enjoying it.

"Lee?" he said near her ear.

"What?" she murmured, lazily finger-combing the back of his hair.

He lifted his head and bore his weight on his elbows. "Promise me you won't pull the same tricks you pulled on me at Thanksgiving."

She said, "I'm so sorry for that."

"I want to be with you on Christmas."

"You will be, I promise. But how are we going to keep from giving ourselves away?"

"Trust me. You didn't know how I felt about you until a few weeks ago, did you?"

"I had my suspicions."

"When?" he exclaimed, as if accusing her of fibbing.

"As long ago as the Fourth of July."

"The Fourth of July!"

"When we were sitting side by side eating corn on the cob. And when we banged into each other playing volleyball. And on the Ferris wheel. A woman senses these things before a man does."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"I never would have if you hadn't said something first."

"Why?"

"Because of all the reasons we talked about earlier--the difference in our ages, what my kids would think, the fact that we're still both in mourning and emotionally vulnerable. There are so many reasons they make me question my sanity now."

With his elbows at her shoulders he put his thumbs in the hollows of her cheeks and pushed gently. He watched her lips press into a false pout and relax as his thumbs retreated. He studied her eyes, locked on his and happy, in spite of her words.

When he spoke, his voice was deep with candor and honesty. "Any mother fixation I ever had on you is gone. Do you believe me?"

She studied his face, wiped clean of smiles and teasing. She felt a thrill and a warning inside, that what they'd begun could lead to hurt for both of them if they let this get out of hand. She hooked his neck and brought his mouth close enough to kiss. Once.

Fast.

"Yes. And now I must go."

"Why?"

"Because I like this too much. I like you too much. You feel too good and I've had too much fun today and I'm getting so mixed up." His eyes seemed to be studying her as if putting great thought into what she said. "And because I'm afraid of what we've started here. Aren't you?"

Again he considered before answering, "No, I'm not. Not like you."

Then he sat back and worked his way off her, grabbed her by both hands and hauled her up. "Come on. I'll take you home."

Chapter 12.

THE following Saturday night Lee closed the store at nine after a grueling day spent mostly on her feet. The demand for fresh-cut flower arrangements had become so great she and Sylvia had decided to hire an additional designer now and have her stay on when Nancy quit after the holidays. The new designer was named Leah. She was Asian, and brought to Absolutely Floral a fresh, new visual aspect in flower arranging.

Many of her arrangements were minimalistic, asymmetrical and stunning.

Lee had watched her work, caught Sylvia's eye and known within ten minutes she was the one they wanted. They had offered her ten dollars an hour, compromised at eleven when she asked for twelve, and believed they were getting a bargain.

However, even with the additional designer, and with Rodney making extra delivery runs each day, they could scarcely keep up with poinsettias for churches, centerpieces for Christmas parties and gift bouquets, both personal and business. There had been three weddings today as well, plus the foot traffic in the store, which got so bad Lee had called Joey over for a few hours just to help bag green plants and carry them out to the cars, take tailings out to the trash, scrub buckets, polish the showcase doors and keep the floor swept in the designing area. She had kept him there till five o'clock, then had given him fifteen dollars and a kiss as thanks before he walked out the door saying, "A bunch of us are going to do something tonight so I won't be home when you get there."

Now it was 9:15 and Lee arrived home nearly exhausted. Her feet hurt, her legs hurt, she had cut her hand on her Swiss army knife and that hurt. She'd been pricked by so many juniper sprigs her hands had developed a puffy red rash. The constant hammering of woody stems had given her a headache. At this time of the year and at Valentine's Day, the banging went on hour after hour until the place sounded like a carpenter's shop instead of a florist.

Sitting in the silent house the absence of sound was so abrupt it seemed felt rather than heard.

She threw her coat across one kitchen chair and plunked down on another to scan the mail, too tired to open the two envelopes mixed in with the junk. She yawned, stared absently at Joey's note lying beside the potted pothos on its red plaid runner. Mom, a bunch of us are going bowling together, then over to Karen Hanson s for sloppy joes. Home by 10.30. His curfew time was ten, but she was too tired to quibble over trivialities. It was the Christmas season, and he'd come to the shop to help her without complaining: She'd give the kid a break.

She heated up a can of Campbell's tomato soup, put it in a mug and took it, steaming, to the bathroom where she filled the tub, sank into bubbles to her armpits and leaned back, sipping when she remembered to, mostly letting the mug wobble back and forth on her knee while she dozed.

She awoke with a start when the soup spilled down her leg and stained the water orange. Groaning, she sat up, washed, dried, powdered herself from stem to stern and crawled into some warm, soft pajamas.

In the living room, she turned on a single lamp and the television, lay down on the sofa and covered herself with an afghan to wait for Joey.

Some time later she awoke again, startled, disoriented after sleep so sound that the hour, day and all basic reason momentarily eluded her.

On the screen Raymond Burr was holding forth in an old Perry Mason rerun. It was Saturday night. She was waiting for Joey. Time was .

.

. she checked her watch . . .

Ten to twelve!

She threw off the afghan and sat up, heart racing from the discombobulating effects of her startled awakening and the sudden plunge into fear for Joey. He was never late! Never! Ten or fifteen minutes lately, since his hormones had started rampaging and little Sandy Parker had come on the scene.

If he was late, there was something wrong.

Oh God, not another one!

The thought skittered through her brain while it was still short of oxygen from getting vertical too fast. She swayed a bit and sat back down to regain her equilibrium. As surely as she knew he hadn't come in, she knew he was dead. It was Greg all over again, and baby Grant.

Oh God, a third one, and she'd have only one left. Panic sluiced through her as she rose and ran to his room to find it empty, the bed rumpled but still made from morning, his work clothes from today lying in a heap on the floor beside a pair of hand weights and a carrying case of CDs.

"Joey!" she shouted, turning frantically into the hall, then hurrying toward the kitchen. "Joey, are you here?"

The light was still on over the stove the way she'd left it.

There were no empty dishes in the sink, no evidence of recent snacking.

"Oh God . . . oh God . .." she despaired under her breath, checking her watch against the kitchen clock. "Where can he be?"

It was midnight when she dialed the number for the Anoka police station--not 911, which was routed through a county dispatcher, but the direct line into the station on Jackson Street.

A woman answered and Lee struggled to keep the panic out of her voice.

"This is Lee Reston. I'm Greg Reston's mother, was Greg Reston's mother, I mean. I know this sounds silly, but my fourteen-year-old son Joey is missing. I mean, he didn't come home when he said he would, and he's always on time. Always. I'm just wondering if by any chance there's been any . . . well . . .

report of anything . . . or word of him . . . anything you know of."

"Hi, Mrs. Reston. This is Toni Mansetti. No, I'm sorry. Nothing at all. But I'll certainly put it on the radio and alert the officers on duty."

"No!" she exclaimed, struck by the nebulous illogic that as long as she kept it unofficial he was okay. Then quieter, "No. It's probably some l thing perfectly explainable and he'll come walking in any minute.

He was with a bunch of kids so he's probably just fine."

"His name is Joey and he's fourteen?"

"Yes."

"Can you give me a description?

"Oh listen, no, no, I don't want . . . he'll be . . . just forget it."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm . . . thank you, Toni. I'm sure he'll show up any minute."

When Toni Mansetti got off the phone she went into the squad room but none of the on-duty officers were around. Christmas season was a violent time of the year and Saturday nights were the worst.

Suicides, burglaries, robberies and lots of drunks. Domestics broke out over ridiculous reasons: whose in-laws couples were going to spend Christmas with, who spent too much money on Christmas presents, who was flirting with whom at the company Christmas party. Money shortages, alcohol and loneliness kept 911 ringing more often than at any other time of year. Of the five officers on duty, none were in the squad room when Toni Mansetti checked.