Janet Evanovich - Thanksgiving

“Megan Murphy, you’re a hard woman.” His gaze dropped to her chest. “Fortunately, even though you’re a hard woman, you still have a few soft spots.”

“I thought you were supposed to be tired.”

“I’m beginning to wake up.” His voice grew husky. “We have unfinished business.”

“I think so too.”

Pat’s mouth dropped open.

“After all, I’m twenty – seven years old, and I have normal biological urges and emotional needs. Just because I’m destined never to get married doesn’t mean I can’t… um, get debauched.”

“I wish I weren’t so tired. Now I’m starting to imagine things. Did you just say you wanted to get debauched?”

“Yes. The sooner the better. How about right after the red cabbage? It has to cook for three hours, anyway. It would give us something to do.”

At five o’clock Timmy was sitting in his high chair, gnawing on his drool – soaked blanket while Pat called out for a pizza.

“Listen kid,” Pat said, returning to the table, “you’ve got to help me out here. I’ve got a long night ahead of me. I’ve got to debauch Megan for three hours. I’m gonna need some quiet.” He was going to need more than quiet, he thought. He was going to need a transfusion. He was out on his feet.

Timmy blinked and pounded his tray table. His face turned red and crinkled, and he began to whimper. “Mum, mum, mum,” he cried.

“Poor kid.” Pat lifted Timmy out of the chair.

“Teething and no mum, mum, mum to comfort you.”

Even if Mum returned, Pat wasn’t so sure he wanted to entrust Timmy to her care. Not even a phone call all this time she’d been gone. Not even a letter. Not his idea of a loving mother.

Megan and the pizza delivery boy arrived at Pat’s house simultaneously.

“Deliveries for Patrick Hunter,” she announced. “One pizza and a strumpet to go.”

“Hear that, Tim. They sent us a strumpet with our pizza. What do you suppose we should do with it?” Pat paid for the pizza and handed Timmy over to Megan. “Timmy says we should have the strumpet for dessert. What do you think?”

“I think I’ll take a shower.”

“I’ll put the pizza away. We can eat it tomorrow.”

“Fine with me,” Megan commented as she sashayed from the room.

When Megan got out of the shower she found the bedroom candles lit and the comforter turned down. The stairs creaked, and Pat walked into the room, carrying two crystal brandy snifters.

“Timmy’s asleep,” he said. “The tooth has broken through the gum. I think he’ll be okay now.”

He handed her a glass. “I’ve warmed some brandy for us.” He took a sip from his own glass and set it on the night table. “Are you sure, Meg?”

Megan just looked at him. How could you ever be sure? she wondered. She’d thought she was sure with David. Look where that had gotten her. No guarantees, she told herself, but this felt right. She liked and respected Pat… and she might as well admit it, she’d fallen for him. She didn’t want to run away.

The night before, she’d stood looking at the plastic bag hanging in her closet. She’d broken out in a cold sweat at the memories it had provoked, but that hadn’t changed her feelings for Pat. It would be terrible to ruin something beautiful and special because of that bag, she’d thought. She’d take a chance and go one step at a time.

“You have beets in your hair,” she said. “Why don’t you take a shower, and I’ll get comfy.” She waited until the bathroom door clicked closed, then dropped her towel and slid between the cool sheets. She tucked the comforter under her arms and listened to the water spraying against the stall door. It was a nice, intimate sound. A husbandly, loving sound.

The water stopped, and moments later Pat emerged, wearing a short royal – blue terrycloth robe. He sat on the edge of the bed and kissed her. “Mmmm,” he said. “Brandy.”

“I toasted you while you were in the bathroom.”

“What did you say?”

“To Pat, the cute pediatrician.”

He made a face. “That’s not very romantic.”

“Okay, then youdo the toast.”

He thought a moment. “To Tibbles, for bringing you to me.”

“To Tibbles.” She sighed and wrapped her arms around his neck, allowing the comforter to slip below her breasts.

His hands skimmed along her neck and her shoulders, and down her arms. She’d finally come to him, and he wanted to please her, protect her, comfort her, cuddle her. He was overwhelmed by the loving feelings flooding through him, barely able to breathe, wanting to cover her with kisses.

Megan writhed under his touch. She moaned and arched her back as his fingers caressed and explored.

Afterward she lay cradled in his arms, under the down comforter, watching the candles burn low in the pewter candlesticks. She hadn’t made a mistake this time. This time everything was right. She belonged here, in his bed, in his arms. She smiled at his even breathing, delighting in the fact that he was asleep and she was awake. It gave her a chance to enjoy him in a more quiet, contemplative fashion. This was nice, she thought. Very, very nice.

Megan lay still as a clam, barely breathing, contemplating the situation. It was official. She had a lover. She’d spent the night with Patrick Hunter. A ripple of excitement caused an involuntary shiver to rush through her. It was thrilling and scary and awkward. She’d been engaged twice before, but she had never felt the jumble of emotions that were flooding through her now. Her engagements had been sterile and orderly compared to this. And she’d never spent the night.

She was new to this morning – after stuff. What the devil was she supposed to do? She needed a cup of coffee, but her lover was still sound asleep. She had a brief thought of dallying with him in his sleep but dismissed it as unethical. She stretched luxuriously and glanced at the bedside clock. Seven – thirty.Seven – thirty?Pat was supposed to be at the hospital at six!

“Pat, wake up. It’s seven – thirty.”

“Mmmm.”

She shook him gently. “You have to get up. You’re late.”

He sighed and rolled onto his stomach.

What did it take to get the man out of bed, a cattle prod? “Pat!”

He burrowed under his pillow.

Megan hopped up and tore the covers off him. She stood motionless for a moment in awed admiration. Lord, he was grogeous. But there was no time for ogling, she thought regretfully. He still wasn’t moving.

“Pat, if you don’t get up I’m going to do something drastic! Pat!” She wrapped herself in his robe and padded into the bathroom.

“Okay, you asked for it,” she said, returning with a glass of cold water.

She stood poised over his naked body. Where should she spill it? He mumbled in his sleep and rolled onto his back, and Megan closed her eyes and dumped the water.

“Holy-!” he shouted, springing put of bed. “What the hell?”

“I couldn’t get you to wake up. It’s seven thirty.”

“Oh, no.” He groaned. “How could I have slept so long?” He looked down at himself. “What happened?”

“I poured some water on you to wake you up.”

His eyes were wide with incredulity, and his voice cracked. “I’m soaked!”

“It was sort of an accident.”

He dashed for the bathroom. “Get me some orange juice. I’ll be down in five minutes.”

Megan slapped a lump of clay onto her potter’s wheel. She looked at it reverently, imagining the teapot she was about to create, anticipating the sensuous feel of the clay whirling against her fingers.

Ever since she was a little girl she’d had a compulsion to make things. Paintings, poems, mittens, kites. She had a deep love of creation, of watching a blank canvas take on color and form, a length of yarn twist and knot into a knitted cap. When she went to the sea she made sand castles. When she was housebound by a snowstorm she made snowmen. When the wind whipped her hair across her face she made kites.

She didn’t think of herself as an artist or craftswoman. She simply considered herself a maker of things. Now she knew how to make a pie, and it had given her almost as much pleasure as making a teapot.

She drizzled some water over the clay, pressed the foot pedal to turn the wheel, and applied firm pressure to the muddy – looking lump, centering it in the circle of her hands. The slick red – brown clay spun against her palms as she forced it into a conical shape. She pushed with her thumbs and returned it to a squat cylinder.

Megan loved working with clay. It was malleable and of the earth. It felt alive in her hands, and when she stopped the wheel and closed her eyes, she could still feel the warm clay moving across her fingertips.

She drew the clay up with steady hands, expertly shaping it into a globe, using her fingers to form a lip at the top. At last she stopped the wheel and examined her creation with a critical eye. “Pretty nice, huh?” she said to Timmy. He looked at her over the rim of his playpen, clapped his hands, and laughed.

It was warm in the outbuilding – turned pottery – studio, thanks to an electric heater. Outside, a cold rain slathered down in sheets, thundering on the shingled roof, spattering against the two small windows. She started when the door suddenly flew open and Pat appeared. He closed the door, leaned against it, and dripped.

“Is it true turkeys are so stupid they’ll stand out in the rain and drown?” he asked. “That’s how I feel. Like a drowned turkey.”

She rinsed the clay from her hands and wiped them on a paper towel. “How did you manage to get so wet? And what are you doing here? Is something wrong?”