time, Anne?"
It was inevitable that the talk would turn personal on some level, and
she had nothing to hide. "I realized that you were right. The holidays
are closing in. I'm hoping to take home a little extra strength. They'll
be tough."
His voice was quiet. "You still miss him a lot?"
"Yes. It isn't as bad as it was. I can accept that he's gone now. I'm
used to waking up without him. The people around me are having more
trouble. They're sometimes so solicitous it'd make you sick.
Thanksgiving's apt to be one long let's-cheer-up-Anne ordeal."
Mitch blew out a breath. "Oh, boy. I know what you mean there."
"How so?" she asked, not letting it go this time. "Are you married?"
Lips pursed, he studied his hands. "No."
"Have you ever been married?"
"Yes."
"Are you divorced?"
"No."
"Separated?"
"No."
There was only one other possibility. It made sense on many different
levels.
"My wife died," he said, looking at her now.
Anne saw the pain in his eyes. "I'm sorry. You must have loved her very
much."
&(l did."
"How did she die?"
His jaw clenched, and anger joined the pain. She was wondering if the
anger was directed at her, when he grew mellow again. "I'd rather not go
into it. That'd be getting more personal than we planned."
"But it helps to talk sometimes. Doesn't it? I mean, if you're angry-"
"Who's angry?"
"I thought I saw-"
"What about your anger? I've heard it, you know. Do you talk about it?"
He pushed his chair back but didn't rise. Both hands clutched the edge
of the table. "You don't know what I'm feeling. You don't know anything
about me, about my work, my responsibilities. How can you be so
sanctimonious?"
She recoiled. "Sanctimonious? I was just trying to help. After what I
went through not so long ago, I may be feeling some of what you are, and
yes, I may want to talk about it. I may want a little help, myself."
The confession startled her. She was wondering where it had come from,
when Mitch sat back and asked quietly, "How did Jeff die?"
She glanced around the room, but there was no avoiding the issue. So she
studied her wedding band. "He was in an accident."
"I know that. But what kind? Were you with him?"
She shook her head. "No."
"Tell me."
"He was on a business trip. The plane went down."
In the silence that followed, she raised her eyes. Mitch looked pale.
"When did it happen?" he asked.
"Last January." He flinched. It was a while before he said, "It's been
nearly a year. Do you date at all?"
"No."
"You should."
"Now look who's being sanctimonious. When did your wife die?"
"Last winter." He held her gaze.
"Do you date?" It was a foolish question. She knew it the minute she saw
the wry twist of his mouth.
"I'm not sure you'd call it dating. When I want a woman, I get one." He
took a breath, paused on the verge of saying more, then dropped it. "At
any rate, I have other obligations."
"Female-related obligations?"
He watched her closely. "Yes."
"see."
"No, I doubt you do. But maybe that's better for now."
She didn't know what he meant, but she wasn't asking. She had too much
pride. Besides, questions weren't part of the deal. If she hadn't asked
that last one, she wouldn't be feeling suddenly low.
Mitch stirred. "Do me a favor?" His eyes were softer. "Take those pins
out of your hair and put a red ribbon in it."
"I don't have a red ribbon."
"Anything bright will do."
"Am I that depressing to be with?"
He left his seat then and circled the table. "No, Annie. I've never
found you depressing." He began removing the hairpins and didn't stop
until he had her hair spread over her shoulders. Then he hunkered down
so that he was closer to eye level. "But I think you overdo the
starkness. You don't have to punish yourself for your husband's death.
Losing him is ample punishment all by itself."
She had to hand it to him. He was perceptive enough, but she assumed
that he spoke from experience. So what was his punishment? His arm?
Those other obligations he mentioned?
But he didn't appear to be thinking of other obligations just then. He
was fingering her hair, seeming entranced by its sheen. "You look so
pretty with your hair down, Anne."
When his eyes rose, her stomach flipped over. They could talk all they
wanted about not being ready for this, but when they were close, it just
happened. His eyes fell to her lips. He rubbed them with a thumb, then
leaned forward and touched them with his tongue. The tip of his tongue.
'tracing her mouth from corner to corner with devastating leisure.
Anne liked what he did. She closed her eyes and sighed, enjoying each
small touch for the pleasure it brought. When she began to tremble, she
clutched Mitch's shoulders. They were made for that, for clutching. They
were large, solid, and warm.
But part of being pleasured was pleasuring back. It was instinctive, and
no hardship at all, because she was hungry. What he did satisfied her
for only a short time. She moved her mouth and found more, moved her
tongue and found even more, and above it all were the throaty sounds
Mitch made, telling her that he was getting hotter.
When he murmured, "Christ," there was awe in his tone. Incredibly,
though, he backed up. He sat down hard on the floor, draped his forearms
over bent knees, and his forehead on his wrists. "Christ, " he
whispered, then raised his head. His eyes were filled with amusement and
sex.
It was a minute before the sex part faded. Then he threw back his head,
dragged in a long breath, and hauled himself to his feel. From a safe
distance, he said, "About your hair. You'll need to wear something red
or orange if you're going to hike with me tomorrow morning. It's
deer-hunting season."
They spent the better part of the next morning in the woods. It was
cold, but Mitch kept her moving, leading her over trails she had never
explored, through gullies she had never seen. A red wool cap kept her
head warm, mittens warmed her hands.
With the trees bare of leaves, vistas were open as they hadn't been in
September. Mitch led her from hilltop to hilltop, one view more
far-reaching than the next. The land was quiet. Forest creatures were
hidden away. The doe that had stood on her hind legs to chomp on a crisp
apple now hid from the hunter. Chipmunks and squirrels were burrowed in
their dens. There was the rustle of evergreen boughs in the wind, the
icy gurgle of the brook as it charged downstream, the crunch of their
boots on the near-frozen ground.
Anne's cheeks were as red as her cap when they returned, tired but
exhilarated, and it was a harbinger of the days ahead. They settled into
the comfort of easy companionship, sharing not only meals, but most
every other time of the day. Mitch read when Anne did, his eye
occasionally catching hers. They played backgammon in front of the fire,
and worked together on a jigsaw puzzle. The weather held, offering
pleasant days with clear skies, and an invigorating chill to the night.
They walked together and worked together, Anne on her translating, Mitch
on papers dug from an overstuffed briefcase. They lived in the here and
now, avoiding talk of the city like the plague.
All too soon, Anne loaded up her car for the return trip to New York.
Slinging an arm across her shoulder, Mitch walked her from the house a
final time. The silence had been heavier that morning than at any other
point in the week. Anne knew its cause.
"Will you be spending Thanksgiving with your family?" he asked quietly.
"Yes." She took in his handsome features, studying, memorizing. "And
you?"
"The same." He held her just a little closer. "Plans for New Year's
Eve?"
They had reached the car. She faced him, smiling sadly. "Funny. I used
to worry about New Year's Eve. Would I have a date? Would I not? Would
he be tall, dark, and handsome? Now it doesn't seem to matter." She
sighed. "No, I don't have a date. I may just plant myself on my sofa
with a bottle of Chablis and a book."
"Why not do it here?" His eyes were deep green, the color of saying
something important.
Her pulse raced. "What?"
"Spend New Year's Eve here."
"Will you?" she asked without premeditation. He pulled her close, into
the warmth of his sheepskin jacket. "Yes."
"What about your other obligations?" Unpremeditated also, but the answer
mattered.
Mitch was a minute in answering. "She goes to bed too early for my
tastes, certainly too early to make it to midnight. No," he grinned,
"she wouldn't be much fun on New Year's Eve. Besides, she's not a fan of
Chablis."
Anne didn't know what to say to that, but his good humor was infectious.
She relaxed in his arms and rested her hands on his chest.
"How about it?" he coaxed softly. "New Year's Eve here?"
"I don't know, Mitch. This thing is so bizarre."
"Are you afraid?" His hands drew light circles on her back.
"A little."
"Of me?"
She was acutely aware of the swell of his broad chest beneath her palms.
"No." She eyed the ribbed pattern of his sweater, and whispered, "Of
me."
"You have nothing to fear, Annie," he assured her gently. He took her
chin with his fingers and tipped up her face. It was the closest
physically that they'd been since that first day. "I know what my own
needs are right now, and they don't include making things harder for
you. By helping you through New Year's, I may just help myself, so
there's a selfish motive involved."
She nearly drowned in the deep, deep green of his eyes.
"So, what do you say?" he asked.
"I say this is starting to sound like a Neil Simon script." She wanted
reassurance that meeting again was right. She wanted him to say, There's
reason why that script made millions for the guy, it's a damned good
plot, it makes a whole lot of sense.
But Mitch only shrugged. Dropping his arms, he moved back. "It's your
choice. I'll be here anyway."
She hated the sudden sound of indifference, but it made it easier to
leave. When he opened the door, she slipped behind the wheel.
"Drive carefully," he said.
"I will." Backing the car around, she straightened the wheel. She gave
Mitch a last, longing glance before putting a foot on the gas. The car
had barely moved forward when his voice echoed in the winter wood.
"Hey, wait!"
She braked. His long-legged gait quickly brought him alongside the car.
His breath misted the air when he leaned into the window.
"Don't forget to pack a dress. We'll be going out." He grinned and
popped a featherlight kiss on the tip of her nose. "Now, go, before the
snow gets here."
She went.
Thanksgiving wasn't nearly as bad as Anne had expected. She spent it at
her parents' house with their usual crowd, and, yes, she missed Jeff.
But there were interesting people to talk with, and chaos enough to
pretend that Jeff might just be off in another room. Her major
discomfort proved to be a stomachache from eating more heavily than she
had in a year, but an antacid and a long walk with her father eased that
pain.
Work kept her busy, as did, to her dismay, unfinished business relating
to the plane crash. The FAA had finally come through with its findings,
and Anne's lawyer had filed suit against the airline-a small, privately
owned one-for the inadequate upkeep and safety-check procedure of its
craft.
Anne had always known that the suit was a possibility, but her appetite
for it had waned. Not so Jeff's parents' appetite. They kept the lawyer
on the case even after Anne asked them to stop.
Now the wheels of justice were turning. The lawyer called her in for
meeting after meeting. Rarely did a day go by when he didn't phone her
with one question or another. The latest word was that there would be a
hearing in early April. Anne cringed at the thought.
She was tired of reliving the accident, tired of the horror, the
helplessness, the anger. She would love Jeff until the day she died, but
she needed to live until then.
And there was Mitch. Something had begun to change-in her life, in her
outlook, in her attitude toward him. He was becoming real. When she was
low, she thought of him and felt better. The prospect of seeing him for
the New Year's holiday became part of her daily routine.
It worried her a little. She wondered if she was building him up to be
something he wasn't. She remembered him as being smart, solid, and
strong, as offering protection and comfort, stimulation and challenge.
At times he seemed larger than life, too large for a plane crash to
kill. She half-suspected he would look at the burning debris and walk
away unscathed.
It occurred to her that after building him up, she might be in for a
letdown when she saw him again. She figured she had until New Year's to
get a grip on herself.
As it happened, she was wrong.
Alexander Robie, the professor for whom she did the ongoing grant work,
organized a dinner for the seven people involved with the project. There
were two secretaries, three research assistants, Alex and a colleague of
