Chapter 1
Leaning forward on the rear seat of the taxicab, the tall, statuesque blonde woman kneaded her handbag with nervous fingers and stared out at the familiar and yet strange streets and buildings of Summervale-a town in which she had been born thirty-six years before, and which she had not seen in five years.
Her name was Nora Hammond, and she was a beautiful, poised woman with the ripe figure of a young girl; her breasts, high and proud and perfectly rounded, showed no sign of sagging, and her thighs, visible where the hem of her short, ice-blue dress hiked up, were firm and tanned, tapering into dimpled knees and slender ankles. Her hips, small and boyish and yet curved provocatively, moved involuntarily on the seat in her agitated state, and she kept moistening full, naturally pink lips with the tip of her small, wet tongue. Her face was soft and lovely, free of age lines, and yet it contained a certain gaunt quality, a haunted quality that was mirrored by her large, expressive blue eyes; once filled with laughter and gaiety, those eyes now contained a hidden pain and torment that was deeply rooted.
As the taxi sped through the downtown streets of Summervale, Nora wondered again-as she had done for perhaps the hundredth time in the past week-if she wasn't making another mistake, an even bigger mistake than the one she had made five years ago, in coming home again. Maybe it would have been better if she had remained in Los Angeles, if she had simply abandoned all hope for a return to normalcy and spent the rest of her life living alone with her guilt and her shame. But that was not the answer, she knew that-any more than suicide, of which she had thought on more than one occasion, was the answer. No, she owed it to Mickey and to the memory of Vera, as well as to herself, to try to make amends for what she had done, for her weakness.
Nora's mind wandered back those five years, as it had during so many waking hours recently, to the night she first met suave, sophisticated Art Donnell. She had been at a party, alone-Vera had been out of town on one of his business trips -and she had been drinking champagne, a beverage which invariably put her in a gay, light mood. She had felt like dancing, and Art Donnell had been there, a smile on his handsome face, saying the right words and making the right gestures, and she had been drawn to him. At first, the attraction was no more than one of immediate fun -dancing, laughing, mild flirting. But then, as the evening progressed and she spent more and more time dancing in Donnell's arms, felt his warm, hard male body close to hers, the attraction had subtly changed into a physical craving. It wasn't that she had been love-starved-Vera was a competent if unexciting and unimaginative bed-partner, and even though he was away three and four days a week on his sales route, he was always hungry for her body when they were together. She couldn't really, even now, explain what had been the cause of her growing desire for Art Donnell; the champagne, the magic atmosphere of a warm summer night and a party, the charm and handsomeness of Donnell himself, were all a part of it, she supposed. And yet, it was more than that. It was as if she had been slowly changing, becoming something other than a faithful wife and a good mother to their thirteen-year-old son Mickey; it was as if there had always been a wild streak in her, a lusting for excitement and adventure, repressed over the years but now breaking through.
When Donnell casually suggested Nora go for a ride in his convertible, out by the lake north of town, her heart had pounded wildly in her breast and even though she knew it was wrong, she had said a breathless yes to his proposal. She didn't want to go, and yet she did, desperately. They slipped away from the party, discreetly Nora had thought at the time, in her light-headed state, and drove in Donnell's brand new Dodge through the warm night. They stopped on a promontory overlooking the lake, a lonely and deserted spot, and the moon had been big and gold in the sky and the crickets had sung, and when Donnell pulled her into his arms she had no will to resist.
His lips and tongue had sent passion spiraling in demanding waves through her body, causing her nipples to swell into rigid arousal, her vagina to secrete droplets of her building excitement, and her arms had clung to him as if she never wanted to let him go. Then he was drawing her down on the seat, his hands caressing her breasts, her thighs, furthering intensifying her arousal, and she had known with a dim part of her mind that there could be no denying Art Donnell-that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
They tore at one another's clothes and then they were naked, moaning and writhing on the seat of the car, and his penis was in her hand, a huge throbbing shaft, much bigger than Vern's, filling her with wild delight at its touch and the prospect of it buried deep up inside her hungrily needing belly. Donnell had kissed her breasts, nuzzling each nipple, and his right middle finger had teased her clitoris, then slid lower and into the hot, wet cavern of her womanhood. Nora had been half out of her mind with desire as she fondled his thick, hard cock, cupped and caressed his sperm-filled testicles, and finally she had drawn him on top of her, holding tightly to his cock, guiding the palpitating shaft to the thin, beardedly aching mouth of love between her trembling thighs.
Then he was sliding into her, filling her, the head of his burgeoning penis slamming hard off her cervix, and she went wild with the sensations coursing through her flesh. The only man she had ever had was Vern, she had been a virgin when they were married at the age of eighteen, and while she enjoyed sex with her husband, it had become a commonplace occurrence-same position, same foreplay, same and well-known penis filling her vagina. And now, she had a lover, another man inside her, a real man with a monstrous, strange to her, cock that drove into her in dizzying strokes that filled the very core of her with ecstasy. Never had it been this good, never, never! Nora locked her thighs to Donnell's sweating midsection, began to pound her heels on his driving buttocks as her orgasm spiraled higher and higher, as she moaned out her delight and urged him on to greater strokes into the hot, moist cavern that was her clasping, secreting cunt.
And then she was there.
She was cumming!
She had cum before, with Vern, but never in such spiraling, dizzying waves of bliss as those which washed over her now. She mewled and clutched Donnell tighter to her, her right hand sliding around his thigh to locate the swinging sac of his balls. She tickled the bloated testicles in mindless passion as her climax soared through her body, and finally her manipulations triggered Donnell's own cumming. His pistoning cock began to ejaculate great, hot, creamy spurts of cum, wetly inundating her cervix and splashing heatedly against the walls of her churning pussy, and she could feel every molten stream shooting forth into her, prolonging her orgasm until she thought she would go insane with rapture.
Then, finally, it was over and their driving bodies were still. Donnell's penis pulled from her reluctant passage with a soft wet withdrawing sound, and she could feel the deflating member leave a thin trail of thick, hot moisture along the nakedness of her thigh and belly as he rolled off her, pulled her close to him as they lay now on their sides.
"Oh Art!" she whispered. "Oh darling, that was . . . wonderful! I never knew it could be like that!"
He kissed her neck, then chuckled. "It's always like that with me, Nora honey."
"Is it? Is it really?"
"I've never had any complaints yet-and no refusals of an encore."
Nora moistened her lips; then, before she could think, she was saying, "You won't have any refusals from me either, darling. When can we meet again? Just tell me and I'll be there, I'll be there in a minute, darling. . . "
Their affair had gone on for two blissful weeks, and Nora had never known such happiness, such rapture. Donnell was true to his word; each time she made love with him, it was better than the last, and she was not disappointed on a single occasion. A part of her knew that their adulterous affair couldn't go on forever, that she would one day soon have to make a choice between Art Donnell and Vern and Mickey; but she was so giddyingly caught up in the ecstasy and excitement of her secret love affair that she was unable to think rationally. She snapped at Mickey, denied Vern his marital rights when he came home, and snuck out at every opportunity to meet Donnell. Nothing else mattered, not her home, not her family-nothing except Art Donnell deep inside her, his monstrous penis ejaculating his hot seed deep into her belly again and again and again . . .
Vern found out about the affair at the beginning of the third week.
Nora had not been nearly as discreet as she had thought the night of the party-which had been given by a good friend of both hers and Vern's and her nocturnal meetings with Donnell had for the most part taken place in his hotel in downtown Summervale. Word had gotten around, and Vern had heard it; shocked and disbelieving, he had confronted Nora with the knowledge in their bedroom, as she was slipping on her coat preparatory to leaving "to go for a little walk."
At first she hadn't known what to do. Admit her guilt, or deny it. Confusion reigned in her. But then, even though she did not want to hurt Vern or Mickey, ignoring the pain in his eyes, she had become defiant. Nothing else in this world seemed at that moment to mean as much to her as keeping Art Donnell, as prolonging their blissful affair. Yes, she was having a lewdly illicit affair, she had shouted at Vern. Yes, yes, yes! And it was with a man who was twice the lover, twice the man, that he was! She loved him, yes loved him, loved him as she could never love Vern Hammond . . .
Vern had slapped her, his face contorted with pain and rage, and called her a slut and a whore and a dozen other names. She had begun to cry, but the defiance remained strong within her, for she had finally admitted to herself as well as to her husband a fact that she had known was true each of the previous fourteen days: she was in love, madly, crazily, blindly in love with Art Donnell.
Nora had run out of the house, gotten into her car, and raced to Donnell's hotel. She told him everything, about Vern finding out, how much she loved him, how much she wanted to be with him and the rest of the world be damned. Donnell had taken her into his arms, holding her close, calming her, and then he had said, "Don't worry, Nora, we won't have to be apart. I love you, too, honey, and I want you with me always. I'll take you away, to Los Angeles."
Nora could hardly believe her ears. "Oh Art! When? When, darling?"
"At the end of this week," he said. "I've just about wrapped up my surveyor's report on the new highway, and I should have everything ready by Saturday. I was going to tell you tonight anyway. I was going to ask you to come away with me.
"Art, is it true? Is it really true?"
"It's really true," he'd laughed. "Now you go home and pack your things and tell your husband you're leaving him. Then you come back here. You can stay with me until we leave."
Nora had obeyed, a deep glow of happiness within her that far overshadowed the wrongness of what she was doing to Vern and to Mickey. Vern had been drunk when she entered the house and told him she was going away with Art Donnell, and he had been maudlin, crying in an unmanly way, pleading with her to stay. She had been oblivious to his entreaties, thinking of Art, only of Art, a real man, and she had packed everything she wanted to take with her into three suitcases. When she was ready to go, Vern was so drunk that he had passed out on the couch.
And then Mickey had come home from his Boy Scout meeting, and seen her packed bags and his father lying there, and his young face had clouded with confusion. "Mom," he had said, "Mom, where are you going? You're not going away, are you? Oh Mom!"
Her heart had gone out to him. In spite of her feelings for Art, she still loved her son, the product of her flesh, and she had taken him into her arms and held him tightly, trying to explain to him that she was in love with another man, that it was impossible for her to stay there feeling as she did. But he had been so young then, and he hadn't understood. Anger had flared in him, and he had cursed his mother and then run sobbing from the room. Nora had taken several steps toward his bedroom, crying a little herself, wanting to go to him, to explain further, but then she remembered Art Donnell waiting for her, wonderful, loving, passionate Art, and she had pivoted abruptly, picked up her bags, and left the home she had helped to create for the last time.
Art took her to Los Angeles at the end of that week, just as he had promised, and her first three months in the huge metropolis had been a merry-go-round of expensive nightclubs and restaurants, parties, trips to Las Vegas and Mexico City, wild lovemaking, delirious happiness. She had thought of Vern and Mickey often in the very beginning, but as her blissful existence with Art continued, she thought less of her former life, blotting it out of her mind. When she received the notification from Vern's lawyer that he had filed for divorce, she experienced a mild pang of regret and guilt, then nothing. The past was behind her; there was only the future now, exhilarating and exciting, the adventure she had always craved and now was embracing completely.
When the divorce was final, she married Art in a lavish ceremony in Hollywood, attended by dozens of his friends, and they bought a house in Laurel Canyon there. Time seemed to fly by, and Nora had never been happier, more effulgent, in her life. Art had inherited a considerable amount of money when he was younger, and that, coupled with his huge salary as a surveyor with the State Highway Commission, enabled them to live in monumental luxury-to take an extended trip to Europe, to rub elbows with movie stars and starlets, to become an integral part of the hectic social whirl of Southern California. It was a dream come true for Nora, a Cinderella story.
And then, suddenly, it had become instead a nightmare.
The beginning of the end, a little less than a year ago, had come in the form of a telegram and two letters from Vern's brother, Ross Hammond, which she had received three weeks late upon returning from a Caribbean cruise with Art. Her hands trembled when she read them, and tears spilled from her eyes. Vern was dead. He had been killed in an automobile accident on the outskirts of Summervale.
She had called Ross immediately, and though his voice had been cold, he had talked to her, listening to her explanation of why she hadn't come to the funeral. He told her that Mickey had moved in with him-Ross was a widower who lived alone in Clayton Heights, the wealthy section of Summervale, as a result of his successful commercial artist's talent-and that the old house was in the process of being sold. Nora had asked to speak to Mickey, but her son had refused to talk to her, saying loudly so that she could hear over the long-distance phone wires that he never wanted to see his mother again. Ross had quietly urged Nora to come home anyway, to see Mickey, and she had said that she would. But she had never gone, because of guilt and her son's stinging words-and because of what happened in her marriage to Art Donnell.
She had sensed a cooling of Art's ardor for her in recent months, but she had attributed this to, simply, the passage of time; after all, they had been together for four years, and the honeymoon couldn't be expected to last forever. She was soon to discover, however, that there was far more to it than that.
Art began to spend more and more time away from home, to take unexplained trips to distant places without her. Nora refused to believe that he was being unfaithful to her, but the nagging thought persisted until, finally, she did some quiet investigating on her own. And learned that Art had been seen in Hollywood, Palm Springs, Acapulco, with a beauteous young red-haired movie actress-that he was having an open, wildly clandestine affair with her.
Nora had been crushed at first, refusing to accept the truth, knowing that she had to. Then the bitter irony of it all struck her, for this was the same situation she had placed Vern in those five years past; now she was the one being cheated on. And as Vern had done with her, she confronted Art when next he came home-and he laughed in her face, contemptuously, a stranger whom she had never thought existed in the body of the man she loved. He told her he was getting a divorce to marry the red-haired starlet, that he was taking everything to give to the other woman, and that if Nora tried to counter-sue, or to make any trouble at all, he would see to it that she was dragged through the messiest, cheapest, loudest kind of court battle on record. And if that wasn't enough, there was always other ways of taking care of her
There was nothing for Nora to do. The change in Art, from a happy, carefree lover to a cold, sneering stranger frightened her, and she had no doubt that he meant every word he said. She had tried appealing to some of her friends in Hollywood and Los Angeles, only to discover that she had no real friends at all-that all the acquaintances she had made while living with and married to Art were his friends, his kind of people. Once they knew how things stood in the Donnell household, they were on Art's side, not Nora's, and she was suddenly completely alone, with no one to turn to, nowhere to go.
Completely demoralized, her world collapsed at her feet, Nora had moved into a small Los Angeles apartment five months ago and had remained there until two days ago. Art had sent her a check in the mail for five thousand dollars, as if she was a whore whose services were no longer needed and therefore was to be paid and forgotten. She had wanted to send the money back to him, to refuse to allow him this one final slap at her pride, but she had no funds of her own, no means of support, and so she had swallowed what was left of her feelings and had cashed the check.
Living alone, seldom going out, she had had plenty of time to think-and to repent. She realized that she had made a mistake in destroying the home she and Vern had made, in denying his love and that of their son, Mickey, that she had been a fool to think that Art loved her so much as to want her with him for the rest of their lives. She knew that there had been other women, too, before the red-haired actress-a long line of women that she had been blind to the existence of during their marriage; and she knew that the only reason Art had kept her around as long as he had was that he had not found a suitable replacement among those women, not until the redhead came into his life. Oh God, what a terrible, romantic, naive fool she had been! She had given up happiness for excitement and adventure, and now that there was no more excitement and adventure, what did she have? Nothing-no husband, no home, not even a son any more . . .
Finally, Nora had reached her decision. She had known that her only hope for salvation, for even a glimmer of renewed happiness, lay in returning to Summervale. But could she go home? Did she dare face Mickey again? And Ross? Yes, she dared -she had to dare. It was the only way.
She had written to Ross, not able to face the pain of a telephone call, and he had responded immediately with a long-distance call of his own. Nora knew that Ross had always liked her, that perhaps his feelings for her had even at one time gone deeper than that, and she had always been able to talk to him. She was still able to talk to him, she discovered, and on the telephone that day she had poured out the entire sad, sordid story, begging at the end of it for forgiveness, begging him to let her come to he and Mickey for a visit to see if she could find herself again. Ross had been sympathetic, and understanding; too many years had passed, he said, for grudges to be held. People made mistakes every day, huge mistakes, and as long as they were willing to admit those mistakes, to seek amends for them, then they should be forgiven.
Mickey had been less forgiving when he heard of Ins mother's plea to come home. He hadn't wanted her home, he still held firm to his vow never to see her again; this was what Ross had reluctantly told Nora in another phone call. But Ross had gently worked on the youth's resistance, while Nora waited expectantly in Los Angeles, not wanting to come unless Mickey wanted her, knowing that she wouldn't be able to face him otherwise; and finally, Mickey had relented. Yes, his mother could come for a visit, after all it was his uncle's house, wasn't it? If he wanted her there, then Mickey guessed he did, too.
Ecstatic, Nora had made all the arrangements and had left yesterday afternoon for Summervale . . .
Now, as the speeding taxi entered Clayton Heights, nearing Ross' home, Nora was once more assailed with doubts and her nervousness increased. If only Mickey will forgive me, truly forgive me, she thought fervently, if only he'll accept me again as his mother, then I'll be able to stay in Summervale and try to put together the shattered pieces of my life. But if he won't, I'll have no choice but to leave again, return to Los Angeles, and never see Mickey or Ross or Summervale again. There'll be no love then, no happiness, no future at all for Nora Hammond . . .
The house where Ross Hammond lived with his nephew, Mickey, was a sprawling ranch-style affair, set deep into the property behind heavy shrubbery and tall, redolent pines. There was a large swimming pool in the rear, a cabana, rolling lawn and a flagstone patio, and privacy was assured by high, fence-like hedges on both sides and in the rear. It was comfortable and affluent, without being ostentatious, and its tasteful landscaping and clean lines were indicative of the personality of its owner.
In the huge beam-ceilinged living room, Ross paced nervously, casting glances at his watch. He was a tall, muscular man, with dark brown hair worn long and shaggy in the current fashion; his skin was the color of old leather from many hours in the sun, and his dark eyes contained traces of humor and good-nature and, now, worry and apprehension. His lean, corded body was encased in a white polo shirt and beige slacks and tennis shoes on this day.
Sitting on the couch before the stone-and-mortar fireplace at one end of the room, Mickey Hammond smoked a cigarette in short, quick puffs and tried to act nonchalant. He was taller than his uncle, but with the same general build, and his facial structure favored his father's side of the family, so that there was a superficial resemblance between him and Ross. His dark hair was worn similarly as well, though longer, and his eyes were an intense greenish-brown under thick brows that made him look older than his eighteen years. His handsomeness, however, was more boyish than distinguished as was Ross Hammond's.
Pacing to the window, Ross looked again at his watch. Where is she? he thought with thinly concealed anticipation. She should he here by now. I wish she'd let me pick her up at the train depot, it might have been better that way . . . Ross moistened his lips, and drew a deep breath, releasing it slowly. What will she look like after five years? Will Los Angeles and the life she's led have changed her much? Will she still he as beautiful, as desirable, as she was when she was married to Vern, as I remember her?
He had thought of Nora off and on for the past five years, since she had left with Art Donnell, and while his feelings toward her at first had been bitter-and had later changed to sadness and curiosity and perhaps a little pity-he knew that there was more to it than that, that deep-down he was still a little in love with her, just as he had been from the first moment he saw her those many years ago. Indirectly, Vern had died because of her selfish whim, her foolish hedonistic-desire to run off with Donnell; and Mickey had been left without a father or a mother to guide him (it was a wonder he had turned out as well as he had, having been subjected to life's more sordid aspects in his formative early teens). . Nevertheless, Ross still felt that strong emotional desire for Nora. There had not been many women in his life since the death of his wife, Carla, whom he had loved dearly, several years ago. Only occasionally, when the need became too great, would he seek out a bed-partner for an evening, and when that happened, it was only for a single evening. No other woman, with the exception of Nora, had ever had a deep, meaningful effect on Ross besides Carla. Oh, he was struck by the beauty or sensuality of this one or that one, wanting their bodies, but that was all he wanted to possess-never any more.
Except, perhaps, for Nora, the Nora he had known and coveted in his quiet way more than five years ago . . .
The thoughts which were revolving in young Mickey Hammond's mind were those of doubt and youthfully irrational hatred which had had five years to grow and become firmly implanted-and yet, ambivalently, there was also a remembrance of the love he'd once felt for his mother, the adoration of her beauty and her gentleness, which had never been totally destroyed by the hatred. Now, with the passage of five years' time, Mickey recalled many of the good things of his relationship with his mother-things which he had automatically blocked out of his mind as he heaped the full blame for the destruction of his home-and then for his father's death-on her shoulders.
He wished he knew how he felt, deep down. Did he love her? Or did he hate her? Did he want to see her again, in spite of the vow he had made never to do so? It must be that way, he must want to see her, or else why would he have given in to his uncle's prodding insistence that they allow her to come for a visit? She was a damned slut, running out on him and Dad the way she had-or was she? Maybe Uncle Ross was right, maybe she just made a very human and stupid mistake and was repenting now for what she'd done, and fully deserving of his forgiveness. A person could only be punished so much for their sins, wasn't that right? Maybe his mother had suffered enough . . .
Mickey twisted uncomfortably on the couch, finally got to his feet and went to the window and looked out. The street, visible through the front yard shrubbery, was deserted. He turned away, facing his uncle.
Ross looked at him kindly and smiled. "Nervous, Mickey?" he asked.
Mickey started to deny it, then shrugged and sighed. "Yeah, I guess I am, Uncle Ross."
"It will be all right, you'll see."
"I don't know," Mickey said. "I hope so."
"Just remember that she's your mother, and that in spite of everything, she loves you. She told me that, more than once, on the telephone, Mickey."
"She sure has a funny way of proving her love," Mickey said bitterly.
"Look, son, she knows what she's done and she wants to come home. She needs our help. We can't shut her out now. She's at an emotional crisis point in her life, and if we reject her there's no telling what might happen."
"She rejected us, didn't she?"
"That was a long time ago. She knows better now."
"Does she really?"
"I think so, Mickey, I really think so."
The handsome youth worried his lower lip, turning back to the window. There was movement on the street now, a car-a taxicab-was drawing up in front of the house. Mickey felt a knot form in his throat, and he choked it down. "She . . . she's here," he whispered.
Ross looked out of the window, then put a reassuring hand on his nephew's shoulder, his own anxiousness thinly concealed on his face. "Let's go out and meet her, shall we?"
"Okay."
Ross opened the door and the two of them stepped out onto the flagstone porch area in front. They saw the blonde woman emerge from the taxi, saw the vehicle drive away, and then she was coming through the front gate, carrying a single suitcase in her hand, her steps slow and hesitant. As she approached, Ross felt his heart thudding in his chest at the initial sight of Nora after five years' time; she was thinner than he remembered her, her face drawn, her shoulders stooped with inner torment and weariness. But she was still beautiful, the years had been kind to her firm, ripe body, and her long legs were beautiful beneath the blue dress she wore. Ross' throat was dry, and there was a curious fluttering sensation in the pit of his stomach . . .
Mickey seemed to be frozen immobile by the figure of his mother. The handsome teenage youth was torn between a sudden impulsive urge to turn and rush back into the house-and an equally strong impulse to step forward, greet his mother, take her into his arms as he used to do as a child. There was so much pain in her face, to the way she walked; it wasn't at all as he had expected her to look. Somehow, he had had the mental fantasy that she would be fat and overblown, that the years of easy living in Los Angeles would have added weight and blowsiness to her lovely body and face. Still, she was just a shadow of her former self, of the happy, smiling, gentle woman he had known and loved, and the sight of her brought emotion welling deep within him. Suddenly, with crystal clarity, he knew that he couldn't, wouldn't reject his mother-that she had been hurt enough, that she did need help and understanding . . .
Nora saw the two men standing on the porch ahead, and her step faltered, slowed even more. Then she regained her stride, her eyes wide and shining, and moved toward them. As she drew closer, she recognized Ross' handsome, quietly smiling face; he had not changed much, he was still a strong, silent man, a man she felt somehow close to-a good, kind man. And then her eyes shifted, and she was startled momentarily, her step again faltering. Mickey? she thought. Mickey, is that really you? You . . . you were such an awkward little boy when I . . . I left and now you're grown up, a man, a tall and handsome man. You look like Vern, like Vern and Ross, oh Mickey, Mickey.. .
When Nora reached the porch, she stopped, looking up at the two men there, and she could feel tears forming in her eyes. The three of them stood uncomfortably in the silence of the summer afternoon, looking at one another, only their eyes touching or moving. Nora wanted to smile or speak, but the muscles in her face and throat seemed frozen. Mickey was staring at her with an expression of confusion and discomfort-but without malice, without hatred, Nora's mind rejoiced; and Ross was smiling quietly, his eyes bright.
At long last, Ross stepped forward and took the suitcase gently out of Nora's fingers. Then, softly, he said, "Hello, Nora, it's good to have you back."
It was as if those words were a switch reactivating machines that had abruptly come to a standstill. Nora stepped forward, and as she did, Mickey also moved toward her. Then, with a rush, Nora had flung herself into the arms of Ross and Mickey, crying openly and unashamedly, holding to both of them as if she never wanted to let them go, saying, "Mickey, Mickey, Mickey," over and over again. And they held her, both of them, and over her soft blonde hair Ross met Mickey's eyes, saw the compassion in them, the glimmer of returning love, and he knew that everything was going to be all right.
Nora whispered softly then, lifting her head and looking at each of them in turn, "I'm glad I came, I'm glad I came home.. . "