Hush (5 page)

smell of fresh coffee greeted her warmly.
She fished around on a shelf above the sink until she came up with the mug a

child had molded for her last year in a ceramics class. She poured herself a cup

and was just taking her first sip when Ethan Tantry walked in and gave her a

huge smile. Ethan was one of the child therapists, and often volunteered to take

the toughest cases. Yet he was a slight man with a receding hairline, wire-rim

glasses, and such an exaggerated effeminate manner that Celia had been genuinely

surprised to learn that he was married and straight.
"Morning, Miss G."
"Morning, Mr. T."
Their exchange was as familiar to them as their faces.
"And how is Mr. G. these days? Counting on disasters? Making money off of other

people's fears, pray tell?"
Celia laughed. Ethan's mockery of Jack and the insurance business never ceased,

but it was all an act. Like most of the town, he bought his homeowner's, car,

and life insurance from The Griswold Agency.
"He's fine, no complaints."
"Fancy that, no complaints. That's a first around here. And do tell, how is that

visually challenged kitty of yours?"
"Pluto is fine, thank you." Celia performed a half-curtsy with her free hand.

"But we did have an unexpected visitor this morning."
"Don't tell me; one of his mountain-lion cousins dropped by for a meal."
"No, no, nothing that dramatic. A dog. A Border collie showed up at the door."
"Oh, my, my, a new member of the household."
"We'll see. Jack's not too keen on the idea."
"Well, if you don't keep him, Fido's gonna fry. Did I ever tell you about the

time Holly's little Pomeranian slept on my jeans?"
Celia shook her head. "No, I don't think so." She knew it would have been

hopeless to try to discourage him.
"This was back when we first started dating, when life was so simple. Anyway, it

was the first time I'd ever spent the night there and Flibbitts— that was her

name, can you believe it?— curls up on my jeans and falls asleep. I'm thinking,

Oh, this is really sweet. Everything's going to work out just fine." Ethan shook

his head. "No, the little bitch was in heat but did moi know? Of course not. The

next day I started across campus and these dogs came out of nowhere and started

trying to hump me. I mean, it's like they're stapled to me. They're on my legs,

my knees, there was even this little guy trying to hump my foot. He looked like

a Brillo pad with a carrot stuck to it."
"I think you're putting me on," Celia said with a smile.
"No, as God is my judge, that's exactly what happened." Ethan crossed his heart.
"Sure."
"Okay, okay, maybe I embroidered just a little." He gave Celia an impish grin

and pointed to the coffeepot. "Pour me a cup, would you. I love to watch." Ethan

made this remark sound positively lascivious.
Celia favored him with an act of her own, lifting the pot a foot or so above his

mug and aiming with the supreme confidence and flourish of a flamboyant

waitress, which she had been for more years than she cared to recall. Ethan

sounded pleased to be so honored.
"Look at that, look at that," he exclaimed as she lowered the lip of the

coffeepot to his cup. "Are we stylish this morning, or what? I'm so impressed,

Miss G, really. You do it with such flair, such"— he paused to roll his eyes

dramatically—"panache, and it's so lacking around here. See what I mean. Look,

he's here, the big lug himself."
Dr. Tony Weston, the Center's new director, didn't seem to know just how to

handle Ethan's gibes. In the three weeks since his arrival Tony had been crisp

with the staff and had not allowed himself to settle into their relaxed rhythms.

Celia wondered if his size had always made him feel separate from others. Tony

stood six and a half feet tall, and even though he was well into his fifties he

carried a solid athletic frame. In appearance and temperament, he was quite the

opposite of Ethan.
"Any left?" Tony tried to look around Celia, who realized she blocked his view

of the coffeemaker.
"Oops, sorry. I think there's—"
Ethan interrupted her with a French accent: "For you, Tony? Why, but of course.

Here, let Cecilia do it. She's in such a sporting mood this morning."
"No, that's okay," Tony replied in his starchy manner.
Ethan put his hands on his hips and eyed Tony's feet. Even before he said

anything, Celia knew he was about to goad him some more. She didn't think this

was very wise. He was, after all, Ethan's new boss. Hers too. But once Ethan got

going, he rarely stopped, and this morning proved no exception.
"Say, are those new Nikes, or did you just rent a couple of barges for the day?"
Celia tried to stifle a laugh, but couldn't. Tony, in fact, was wearing a new

pair of athletic shoes— white, which made his feet look enormous, even larger

than they were; and they were huge, something like a size fifteen or sixteen.

They had been a source of some raillery almost from the day he walked in the

door.
Ethan would not let up: "I'll tell you, if I were an otter and I saw you coming,

baby, I'd book. I'd get out on the first thing smoking."
Tony granted Ethan a tense smile. He tolerated him, that was clear to Celia.

Maybe me too, she thought. He certainly didn't think much of art therapy. He'd

been clear enough about that. Tony was very much the behaviorist. He appeared to

care only about fast results. He glanced at both of them.
"Sorry I can't hang around for more of the fun," he said, without sounding as if

he'd had any fun at all, "but I've got some case reviews to attend to."
As he turned to leave, Ethan piped up one more time: "See you, Sasquatch."
Tony ignored him.
"Me too," Celia said, checking her watch. "I'd better book."
"Bye, chile." Ethan gave her a beauty-queen wave.
"Toodles."
What a silly word, Celia thought as she walked down the hall. Why'd I say that?

She wasn't even sure there was such a word. But Ethan made her laugh and feel

playful enough to say things like that. She liked him. She worried that she was

starting to like him too much.
7
Jack shook the hand of young Larry Thorston and wished him a very good day. He'd

certainly gotten Jack's day off to a fine start. Monday mornings usually brought

in only claims— Saturday-night car wrecks and Sunday-morning fender benders— but

Jack had just sold the recently wedded Mr. Thorston a

two-hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar life-insurance policy. Not nearly as flush as

Jack's own, or the one he'd taken out on Celia's life, but still not bad

considering the guy barely earned twenty thousand dollars a year at the only

mill still operating in Bentman. But the kid had a teenage bride even younger

than himself and the good-natured giddiness of a small-town boy delighting in

his first regular hump. In short, young Larry was pliable, suggestible, a nearly

ideal client.
Ah yes, the pleasures of owning an insurance agency in a burg like Bentman. It

sure beat the slash-and-burn tactics he'd had to put up with in Chicago. For

starters, he didn't have any competition here. That counted for a lot. Folks

either dealt with him or they drove the twenty miles to North Fork. Usually,

like young Mr. Thorston, they dealt with Jack. And why not? He did his best to

keep them happy. You just couldn't take anything for granted, not even a

monopoly, and by no means a marriage. He could have told little Larry a thing or

two about that, but then he might not have been so

pliable...suggestible...ideal. Besides, Jack believed that marital cynicism was

the province of older males. Someday Larry Thorston would know this, but by then

he'd have at least one unhappy wife and several unruly children, and more

insurance than he'd ever need. Most of Jack's customers did.
But in truth, Jack envied the young man his unbridled innocence and undivided

love. Jack possessed neither, and for the tenth or eleventh time— he'd honestly

lost count— he found himself right smack in the middle of a raging affair.
Back around the Fourth of July he had advertised for someone to fill a clerical

position. With the timber industry in such rapid decline, jobs had become

scarce. Even so he'd been shocked when thirty-two people stopped by to fill out

applications. After two full days of interviewing he was exhausted, but when

Helen Atkins walked in the door he sat up and took notice. Her full figure had

commanded his attention first. Then, when she sat down, her snug miniskirt rose

halfway up her substantial, though shapely, thighs. She volunteered that she was

twenty-six, loved to make work a "fun place," and despite the rings on her

finger never once mentioned her husband. Jack was smitten, and decided then and

there that if she could type, she could have the job. She could type. Could she

ever!
They'd flirted for more than two months before ending up on the carpet in the

walk-in vault where he kept the most critical documents. She'd turned out to be

an aggressive, athletic lover, much different from Celia, who displayed her

affections softly, both in word and deed. Helen was a big woman, and he had

quickly come to see that her lust matched her royal stature. In just two hours

on Friday night she left him drained for the entire weekend. At forty-five he

was slowing down, but Helen had almost twenty years of youth on her side and was

almost always raring to go.
He saw her rise from her desk and straighten out her skirt. The fabric rubbed

against her buns and revealed their full, firm shape. She turned toward him, and

his pulse quickened. The very sound of her hose-covered thighs brushing against

each other—swish, swish— made him want to fall to his knees and pleasure her

instantly.
She tapped playfully on the glass partition that separated Jack from the rest of

the office.
"May I come in?" she asked demurely.
He loved that silky voice coming from a woman so robust, so Rubenesque,

so...rapacious.
"Of course, of course, you're welcome in my little space anytime. Here, have a

seat." He patted the chair next to his desk and wished that for the next few

minutes he could be nothing more than the cushion on which she was about to

perch.
She stepped into his cubicle—swish, swish, swish— and eased past him. He smelled

her perfume and resisted the urge to bite her behind. He also tried mightily not

to steal a glimpse up her legs as she sat down. He failed. She noticed, but

proved to be a generous spirit and allowed him quite an eyeful as she arranged

her skirt. Neither of them commented on her pert performance.
He forced himself to glance at Ruth, his only other employee, and was relieved

to see her busy with a customer. He thought of her as an older woman, though she

was much closer to Jack's age than Helen was.
"I have a problem," Helen said with great seriousness.
Jack coughed. "A problem?" He coughed again. His mouth suddenly felt dry, and as

he picked up his coffee cup he desperately tried to calculate whether it was

even possible for Helen to be pregnant yet. As he swallowed he reached a

conclusion so dreadful that he almost gagged.
"Well"— he recovered as smoothly as he could—"I'll be glad to help you out in

any way I can." He was thinking abortion, of course, and wishing like hell he'd

been generous enough to include health in his employee-benefits package.
"I don't know how to put this," she said in those same grave tones that most of

us reserve for the most direct of circumstances, "but my problem is you."
"Me?" His voice came out as a squeak.
Helen nodded and dropped her eyes to the hem of her skirt, which had settled a

distracting distance above her knees. Jack shared the view as he made every

effort to sound more confident.
"I hate to think that I'm causing you any problems because, as you know"— he

shot a glance at Ruth, then lowered his voice along with his eyes—"I have

nothing but the warmest feelings for you."
"I know," Helen said with sudden urgency. She raised her head to look at Jack,

and he felt compelled to leave behind the vision of those lovely legs. "But

that's the problem. For a month now all I can think about is you. I mean, I'm a

married woman. I shouldn't be thinking about doing all those things to you, but

I do— all day long!"
"I know exactly what you mean." He reached out to pat her knee but stopped short

when he spotted Ruth looking at them. His hand fell lamely to his desk, which he

then drummed pointlessly. "I'm married too, you know." He thought it important

to remind her of this. "But when I look at you out there working away, I just

want to reach out and squeeze your cheeks and—"
"I know. Me too. All I think about is what we do and how much I like doing it. A

lot more than with Ralph," she added with what sounded like true remorse.
Jack felt guilty at the mention of Ralph's name. Last year he lost his job when

one of the timber companies folded, and Helen had recently confided that he'd

run out of unemployment benefits and spent his days watching "Oprah" and

"Geraldo." But just as Jack was feeling the virtue of his guilt, Helen crossed

her legs and her thighs issued that sweet swishing sound, and he promptly forgot

all about What's-his-name.
He realized that he'd been leaning closer and closer to her as she talked, and

wondered if his tongue had been hanging out too. He made himself sit up

straight. No sense making Ruth suspicious, if she wasn't already, which in his

more sober moments he knew she had to be.
Though he'd assumed a more businesslike posture, Jack kept his voice warm and