Pulling Home (16 page)

And when he turned her against the metal door until her breasts flattened and

spread her legs wide, she knew what was coming. Wanted it. Needed it. He entered her with one vicious thrust, hard and long, and full. Everything stopped for the briefest of seconds—her breath, his groans, their hearts—and then he grabbed her hips and thrust into her, erasing nine years of separation with each pump, until they both exploded, hard and long, and full.

They didn’t move for several minutes as their breathing evened and relaxed.

Audra kept her face turned to the side, staring at a carton of catheters. She wouldn’t think right now. She couldn’t. Jack stepped away and she heard the rustle of clothing as he adjusted his scrubs.

“Open up,” he said softly, nudging her legs apart. She felt limp and wobbly,

disconnected from her body. He dabbed her sex with a wad of Kleenex, gently wiping the tiny stream escaping down her right leg. When he finished, he pulled her panties up and smoothed her skirt. Audra stepped away from the door and fastened her bra. She didn’t turn around. “Audra.”

There it was again—that voice. The one that made her forget who she was and

what she stood for. That voice made her forget she hated him. For once, she ignored it.

Instead, she buttoned her shirt and opened the supply room door.

“All I’m trying to figure out is if it’s already happened or if it’s coming around
the bend.”—Bernie Kalowicz

“Jack? Hey, I just told you Leslie and I were going to Vegas for a week of sex and gambling and all you said was ‘Have a good time.’ What’s with you?”

Jack scratched the stubble on his jaw and closed the chart in front of him. “Long day.”

“Right.” Bernie eyed him like a damn cross-examiner. “So, you don’t care if

Leslie and I take off then? She’s feeling a little neglected lately and I told her I know just the cure.”

“Carolyn would emasculate you before you reached the take-off gate.”

Bernie scowled. “Oh, yeah. I forgot about her.” He picked up the chart on Jack’s desk. “I guess wives don’t go for their men having flings, do they?”

“Can’t say, as I’ve never had a wife, but my guess is, no.”

“Damn. I’ll have to break the news to Leslie.” He flashed Jack a grin. “She’s

going to be awfully disappointed.” He sucked in his size 44 belly and flexed his grizzly-sized arms.

“I’m sure she will be, but she’ll manage.”

Bernie let out a laugh and flopped onto one of the chairs opposite Jack’s desk.

“Seriously, man, what’s up with you?” He eyed the rumpled blanket and pillow on the couch in the corner. “You should go home.”

“Not yet.” Jack reached for another file. If he went home now Leslie might be

waiting for him. In bed. Naked. He wasn’t ready for that. An empty house might also force him to think about what happened between him and Audra in the supply closet. Not that he’d been able to think of anything else these past few days. The feel of her, the taste, the smell. Nothing could erase that no matter how many charts he read.

“I’m thinking we can discharge your niece tomorrow.”

Jack had been thinking the same thing. There’d been no sign of fever or cerebral spinal fluid leakage. Cranial pressure readings were good, vitals were steady. Time to go home.

“She really doesn’t like you, does she?”

“Who?” Of course he knew who Bernie meant.

“Audra. You know, tall, dark hair, killer legs. I try to throw your name in now and again, seeing as you’re the premier surgeon at this hospital, but she turns up her nose like you’re a pile of manure in ninety degree weather.”

“Thanks for the visual.”

Bernie kicked off a clog and planted a size 13 on the edge of Jack’s desk. “I know your family’s got issues with her and she’s not exactly thrilled to be here, but there’s something between the two of you that reeks like ten-day-old milk.”

Jack ignored Bernie and his farm boy analogies.

“Are you gonna tell me, or do I ask her?”

Jack’s head shot up. “Don’t you dare talk to her about anything other than Kara. I mean it, Bernie.”

“Hmmm.” His partner tapped his chin and nodded his bushy head. “Sounds like I

hit a splinter.”

“Shut up or I’ll kick your ass back to that hick farm in Pennsylvania you came

from.”

“Does Leslie know?”

Jack was past irritated. He was royally pissed. “Know what?”

Bernie leaned forward and lowered his voice to a quiet rumble, “I come from a

thirty-acre farm where six year olds see bulls mating. So, I know a mating ritual when I see one. All I’m trying to figure out is if it’s already happened or if it’s coming around the bend.”

***

shuttered Victorian which housed one of Holly Springs’ founding families. The

Ruittenberg name was splashed on buildings, street signs, even the community pool.

They were not a friendly people. While in office, the Honorable Victor

Ruittenberg faxed drunk and disorderly convictions to
The Holly Springs Sentinel
as a lesson for the ‘weak in spirit’. His wife, Telda, refused to let her staff eat indoors or use the bathroom facilities, demanding they find other accommodations. The daughters, Glenda and Gretchen possessed a similar air of superiority, labeling girls without designer clothes cheap and tawdry though rumor had it Glenda made out with two thirds of the football team senior year and Gretchen stole enough lipstick and eye shadow from Mr. Crutchfield’s Drugstore to open a cosmetic counter. Her name did not appear in the weekly newspaper blotter.

The Ruittenberg’s only son, Malcolm, held the distinction of robbing a liquor

store and a bingo hall in the same night, not that he needed vodka or money as one could find plenty of both in the Ruittenberg cupboards. Rumor had Malcolm performing the deeds to force his father into a moral dilemma, which of course, the Honorable Judge failed when he threw his son’s case out of court for lack of evidence or witnesses, which then prompted the sixteen year old to steal a car and parade it down Main Street. He got plenty of witnesses, evidence, and a three year sentence.

Audra glanced at the wobbly handwriting on the paper she held. Doris O’Brien

had written three names, two were Audra’s potential fathers and the third had

information. Malcolm Ruittenberg was number one on the list. Audra worked her way up the brick walk lined with blood-red petunias and rang the doorbell. A young woman of no more than twenty opened the door dressed in a French maid outfit complete with fishnets and stilettos.

“I’m looking for Mr. Ruittenberg. Is he available?” Audra tried not to stare at the girl’s cleavage which resembled a Victoria Secrets’ cover.

“Depends,” she said, giving Audra a long once over. “Are you one of Trilla’s

girls? Mal didn’t like the last one they sent, said she was too young, even for him.”

Too young for what?

“Come on in. You’re a little on the old side but you might do. Put your shoes over there.” She pointed to a brown Rubbermaid tray. “Mal doesn’t like shoes in the house.”

She glanced down at her own four-inch heels and shrugged, “Unless we’re playing dress up.”

Please do not let this pervert be my father.
Audra shoved the paper with names on it in her pocket and followed the French maid down a corridor lined with gold-framed photographs of dogs. When they reached the end of the corridor, the woman knocked softly and said in jerky French, “You have a visitor, Monsieur Malcolm.” A stream of perfect French blasted the door. The woman teetered back on her stilettos and said, “I think that means he doesn’t want to see you.”

Kara’s life could depend on this visit and whether the man cursed her in French, Russian, or Japanese, she
was
going to see him. “It’s okay. You go on. I’ll just be a few minutes.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Really,” Audra reassured her. “I’ll be fine.” She grabbed the knob, turned it and flung open the door.

“Sonofabitch! Goddamnit get the hell out of here you—”

The swearing halted the second he saw her. He was a tall, muscular man with a

shock of black hair and equally dark eyes that pierced her as he skirted stacks of books and journals to make his way toward her.
Was this man her father?
Audra took in the lanky walk, the tapered fingers, the full lips. He reminded her of an older Daniel Day Lewis. She could see how a sixteen year old might lose her head and her virginity under that brooding stare.

“Who are you?” he demanded. He stopped a foot from her, lifted a lock of her

hair and sifted it through two fingers.

“My name’s Audra.” The words tumbled out in a mix of nerves and anticipation.

There was a slight resemblance in the shape of his forehead and cheekbones. Maybe in the arch of his eyebrows, too. Her gaze skittered to his ears. Yes, hers were small like his.

“What the hell are you staring at?” He swiped a broad hand over his face and hair.

“You remind me of someone.” A half truth. She told herself it didn’t matter if he was her father or not, she only wanted his medical history. But deep down she knew that wasn’t totally true. After years of wondering, it would be a relief to finally know.

“You remind me of someone, too.” He spattered more French, ending in Mon

Cheri. He touched her cheek, traced a finger along her jaw.

“Corrine Valentine?”

Malcolm Ruittenberg snatched his hand back and cursed again. “You knew

Corrine?” His dark eyes narrowed. “You’re the daughter.” He turned away and reached for a pack of Lucky Strikes on the coffee table. “You look like her,” he said, his voice suddenly languid and far away. “It’s in the eyes. And the shape of your mouth. And the nostrils. If I weren’t under the influence, I would have noticed sooner.”

Influence probably meant drugs as there wasn’t a bottle nearby, and drugs

probably meant illegal, if the man’s past meant anything. “That’s why I’m here,

actually.” She fingered the paper in her right pocket. “Because of my mother.”
And my
sick child.

“What do you want with me?” He waved his hand around the room. “An ex-con

who’s snorting or screwing away his parents’ millions?”

“I heard you knew my mother in high school.”

“So? Lots of men knew Corrine.”

Was that a shred of pain laced in those words? Maybe Malcolm Ruittenberg really

had loved her mother. Maybe Audra was his daughter. Maybe he’d want to know about her. She took a gamble with her next words. “You and my mother shared something

special, didn’t you?”

The man’s eyes narrowed and his Adam’s apple convulsed with obvious agitation.

“I am not your father. Not that I wouldn’t have welcomed the task, but that’s a sin you can’t pin on me.”

A surge of relief mixed with disappointment filled her lungs. “Do you know who

else I can talk to?”

The man who wasn’t her father slid into a leather chair with the grace and fluidity of a panther. The smile he bestowed on her spoke of skill and debauchery, with a mix of hopelessness. “Of course, I do. Hated the guy because he took something I wanted.”

“Can you give me his name?”

“Hell, why not? Name’s Henry Stivett. He runs the local Shell station. You can’t miss him. He’s the grease monkey with two fingers missing.”

Audra thanked him and hurried out, passing the French maid who had changed

into a Geisha and was busy wrapping her waist-length hair into a bun.

The drive to the Shell station took less than ten minutes but she had her answer to her parentage in five. She barely had time to step out of the car when a tiny woman in a mechanic jumpsuit barreled toward her waving a wrench in her hand. “Get out.”

“Excuse me?” Under smudges of grease, the woman looked to be about forty-five.

A no-nonsense type with cropped hair and a square jaw.

“I don’t want my brother to see you.” She stepped closer, her lips flattening over two rows of tiny teeth. “Leave. Now.”

Audra touched the paper with the names on it. This could be the one. “I’m here to see Henry Stivett. Is he here?”

“Leave now, or I’ll call the cops.” The woman tightened her grip on the wrench.

“Please—”

“You Valentine’s think you can walk all over people, don’t you? Henry never got

over your mother, do you know that?” She pulled out the last word as if it were poison.

“When she died, I thought he’d die, too. He still brings fresh flowers to the cemetery every month. What did she give him other than heartache? She didn’t deserve that kind of devotion. What kind of girl won’t let a boy kiss her open-mouthed and then lets another one knock her up?”

“I…” Audra backed away, trying to block out the next words.

“I’ll tell you what kind,” the woman went on, “a tramp. That’s right. A no good

tramp.”

Audra sped away but the words stayed with her. She’d heard them her whole life.

Wasn’t that part of the reason she’d wanted to escape to California and start a new life where nobody but Christian knew the truth? Yet, here she was, sixteen again, with people whispering behind her back, telling her she was just like her tramp mother.

She glanced at the last name on the list. She had hoped to avoid this one for a

myriad of reasons. Now, it looked as though she had no choice but to make this last visit.

Doris insisted the man knew something, said she’d seen his face grow mottled then pasty when she mentioned Corrine Valentine’s name. Audra hadn’t been back to this place since Grandma Lenore died and she didn’t want to be here now, but if she could find answers, it would be worth it. She rang the bell and waited.

When Father Bartholomew Benedict opened the door, his angular face blotched

with pink then paled. The priest opened his mouth to speak, coughed, and after two efforts managed to get out a hoarse, “May I help you?”

He’d offered her no more than a few cursory words at Christian’s funeral but at

the time, she’d thought the priest was merely showing respect and deference to a family he’d known for decades. Now, she saw the truth draining from his face. He’d