Free A Place Called Home by Jo Goodman Page B

to pass out assignments to the Green and Yellow Teams and round up the Blues.
     
     
    When Thea didn’t call by eleven-thirty, Mitch decided she wasn’t going to return his call at all. He didn’t blame her. He knew he’d been a first-class ass last night when she’d phoned unexpectedly. In her sexy Ferragamo sling-backs, he wouldn’t return his calls either. Clearly some act of contrition was in order.
    The Chronicle ’s building was across town from Foster and Wyndham, but the nice thing about Pittsburgh’s golden triangle was that virtually everything was within walking distance. Mitch finished his meeting with the editor of the Sunday Forum section in record time, grabbed his jacket, and hurried out of the building. He stopped for flowers, bagel sandwiches, and Godiva chocolates, and still managed to make it to the ad agency by twelve-twenty.
    Mitch thought the receptionist regarded him and his bribes with something akin to pity when he told her whom he wanted to see, but she lifted the phone and called through to Thea’s office anyway.
    “I think she’s still in a meeting with the Blues,” she said. “You can have a seat and wait if you’d like. I’ll let her know you’re here as soon as she comes out. I can’t interrupt her, though.”
    “Couldn’t I wait in her office?”
    She hesitated. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She looked from the flowers to the chocolates and then to him again. “I know I look young and impressionable right now, but I’m grooming for the office-dragon position.”
    Both of Mitch’s brows lifted. “They have one here, too?”
    “Yes, and she’s Ms. Wyndham’s admin assistant. So, even if you got by me with this sorry Hail Mary pass you’re attempting, she wouldn’t let you into the inner sanctum.” She pointed a bloodred acrylic-tipped nail at the chairs against the wall. “I promise I’ll tell—”
    “Hey, Tamika. Who’s this?”
    The beadwork in Tamika’s hair clicked softly as she swiveled in her chair and looked up. “Nice shades, Mr. Foster.”
    “Thanks.” He pushed them up a notch so they went from his forehead to the forefront of his receding hairline. “Your boyfriend?” he asked. “You need a long lunch?”
    “No, but that’s a nice offer. This is Mr. Baker. He’s asking to see Ms. Wyndham.”
    Mitch thrust the bagel bag into his left hand and held out his right. The flowers and chocolates were squeezed in the crook of his arm. “Mitch Baker,” he said. “I’m a ...” He hesitated, not certain how to describe himself in relation to Thea Wyndham. His eyes darted to the gold Godiva box and then back to Hank Foster. “I’m a penitent.”
    Foster laughed. “Then I hope you have shoes in that bag because flowers and chocolates aren’t going to cut it.” He put his hand in Mitch’s and gave it a firm shake. “Come on back. It’s all right, Tamika. I know who Mr. Baker is. I’ll show him to Thea’s office.”
    Mitch started to follow, paused, and planning for a future of needing favors from the dragon-in-training, he placed the flowers in her arms. Her smile was beatific.
    Watching the exchange, Hank Foster shook his head. As he led the way to Thea’s office, he confided, “You’ve done it now. Upset the delicate balance of power around here.” He pointed to the aging Valkyrie at the copier. “See her? That’s Mrs. Admundson. She’s been here longer than I have. This is her desk.” He tapped it as they passed.
    Without missing a beat, Mitch placed the gold Godiva box at the center of it.
    “Good. Détente is achieved. What do you have in the bag?”
    “Bagel sandwiches.”
    “Better give those to me. They’re pretty unimpressive without the flowers and the chocolates.”
    Mitch’s eyes darted to the wrinkled brown bag he was still clutching. It was hanging from his left hand like a game pheasant he’d shot down in the wild. He held it out to Foster who snatched it up before he could change his