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Dreams for Stones
Excerpt
Samhain Publishing, Ltd
Winter 2007Chapter One
Alan Francini smoothed a saddle pad onto Sonoro’s back. The horse danced sideways before settling and nudging the man’s shoulder, blowing softly. Alan stood for a moment, his forehead against the animal’s neck, then reached for the saddle and, with one smooth motion, swung it into position. He tightened the cinch, mounted and, turning Sonoro toward the foothills, loosened the reins.
Their swift passage through the brisk air chilled Alan’s face, pulling tears from his eyes. He ignored the wet on his cheeks, focusing instead on the dull staccato rhythm of hooves on frozen ground, the click of iron shoe against cold stone, and the huff of Sonoro’s breathing visible in the icy air.
When they reached the alpine meadow with its tiny topaz lake, he left the stallion to graze and walked to the edge of the water. The day he and Meg discovered it, the lake had been blue and mirror still, reflecting mountains, trees and sky in all their perfection, like a second reality.
Now that day was the only memory he was able to look at directly, without flinching. The only day in all their days together that hadn’t shifted and splintered into sharp-edged, unrelenting pain.
A cloud slid across the sun and the lake darkened, its opaque surface shivering with each gust of wind. Early April. An uncertain time of year. As uncertain as the possibility of joy.
He picked up a stone, tossed it into the gray lake and stood waiting until the widening ripples from the splash touched the shore at his feet.
Then he remounted and rode back the way he had come.
Alan was halfway through chores Easter morning when his sister showed up. Elaine swung on the door of the stall he was cleaning, chewing a stem of alfalfa, looking more like a young girl than a woman of thirty-three
He reached over and pulled the hay from her mouth. “Bad habit, Laine.”
She wrinkled her nose and yanked a fresh stem free. “So how go the Denver State tenure wars?”
“Dossier’s due next fall.” He went back to forking used straw into the wheelbarrow.
“You have a take on how it’ll go?”
“New department head might be the sticking point.” At Hilary Hilstrom’s first faculty meeting she’d laid out her “vision” to turn DSU into a fiction-writing mecca.
“So? Send her roses and a box of very expensive chocolates.”
He took in a deep breath of air scented not with roses and chocolate but with hay and horse and turned to tell Elaine he couldn’t think of a worse thing to do.
She grinned. “Gotcha. So why’s she the sticking point?”
“She came to observe my class. Unannounced.” He continued to work, his muscles loosening and warming, sweat dampening his shirt, as he recalled Hilstrom’s visit. He’d done the math. The woman was at least fifty, but fighting it with short skirts and too much makeup.
The day she came to his class, she sat in the back of the room, a perfectly groomed, lavender-garbed apparition, while he struggled to get a reaction to a piece of experimental fiction out of students more likely to have lavender hair than lavender clothes. Eventually he succeeded, and caught up in the discussion, he forgot Hilstrom until the students filed out.
She had paused in the doorway, tapping her reading glasses against her teeth. “That was certainly an interesting approach, Alan.” Her tone made it unclear whether she considered it a good interesting or a bad interesting.
Elaine wiggled her fingers at him. “About that visit?”
He didn’t want to rehash it, bad enough to have lived through it once, but maybe he could come up with a story to amuse her. It would be nice to keep her hanging around for a while.
“We were reading The Taming of the Shrew. I invited her to read Katherine’s part.”
“Tell me you’re joking.”
“Trust me, Hilary Hilstrom is no joke.” And wasn’t that the truth. He kept his face turned away, as he continued to work.
“Did she do it?”
“She did.”
“And?”
He leaned on the pitchfork and thought about where to take the story as the horses chomped steadily through their morning hay and oats.
And then he had it. “Hilstrom was so dramatic, the football player reading Petruccio forgot he was acting and kissed her.” Alan smiled at the vision of Hilstrom, those damn glasses on her nose where they belonged for once, and a block-shaped lineman with no neck, leaning in, eyes closed, lips puckered.
“If that really happened, your goose is cooked.”
“Yep. Unless he was a damn good kisser.” He tossed the last of the used straw into the wheelbarrow. “She appeared bemused.”
Elaine laughed. “By the muse or the guy?”
Alan shrugged, pleased with the success of his tale. As he passed her, Elaine turned and followed him.
“You made that up, right?”
He dumped the contents of the barrow, straightened and met her gaze with a solemn look. “Nope. Cooked goose. That’s me. Easter dinner.”
He saw she half-believed him, although as a clinical psychologist, she usually recognized bullfeathers immediately. But then it had been a very long time since he last joked with her.
Her grin fading, she stepped closer and touched his arm. “Alan, there’s something I need to tell you.”
“Knew it was too good to be true you actually came to help me muck out,” he said, hoping to lighten her up.
“We’re making the announcement at dinner, but…” She bit her lip, her fingers worrying the fabric of his shirt. “I didn’t want to spring it on you in front of everybody. But, well, I’m going to have a baby.”
He sucked in a quick breath and let it out slow, trying not to let the emotions set loose by her words take hold. “Hey, that’s great news, Laine.” He pulled her into his arms. “Bet Ted is thrilled, and the folks will be ecstatic.”
“It’s just. Times like this.” Her voice caught, and she pressed her head against his shoulder. “Meg…she ought to be here. You know.”
“Yeah.” He spoke softly, because suddenly he found it impossible to get all the air he needed.
“Sometimes I can’t stand it.” The fierce words were interlaced with tears. “I miss her so much.”
Yeah. He did, too. And always would.
Elaine scrubbed at her eyes. “Sorry. I didn’t know I was going to do that.” She stumbled out of his arms and went over to the nearest stall. The occupant stuck its head over the door, whickering a greeting, and Elaine stroked the shaggy neck, lifting and untangling the mane with her fingers.
The sun slanted across his sister’s hair, burnishing the honey with gold, and for an instant it was as if Meg stood there, saying, “Alan, look at this. Her mane’s all tangled and after I just combed it. Bet she got into those brambles going after berries again, the greedy gut.”
The twist of pain was so powerful, Alan doubled over. When he straightened, he was relieved to find Elaine hadn’t noticed.
He shook his head to clear it, then hooked a bale of fresh straw and hauled it over to the clean stall. When he looked up, he found Elaine watching him, a worried look on her face.
He spoke as gently as possible. “It’s okay, Laine. I think your having a baby is wonderful.”
He led Sonoro back into the clean stall and took his time unclipping the lead, stroking the soft muzzle, running his hands down each leg, picking up and checking each hoof. By the time he finished, Elaine had gone back to the house.
He breathed a sigh of relief, glad to be alone again in the quiet of the barn with creatures that couldn’t speak.
Chapter Two
Kathy Jamison stood at the entrance to the botanical gardens, her gaze focused on the man walking toward her. She had the urge to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. Instead, she rubbed her thumb against the diamond ring Greg had placed on her finger a month ago and knew she was most definitely awake. And reality was better than any dream.
Greg reached her and bent his head to kiss her before taking her hands in his and swinging her into an impromptu waltz, singing, “California Here I Come”.
Kathy’s smile slid away and her whole body stiffened with alarm. “California?”
“Yep. Can you believe it? The fellowship came through. San Francisco. Only the best toxicology residency in the country. My pick of positions when I finish.”
Kathy stepped away, trying for perspective, dread replacing joy. “But-but, I thought… That is, we agreed. You’d apply for the residency here, and we wouldn’t need to move.”
People eddied around them as they faced each other in the center of the path.
“Well, yeah, but that was only if San Francisco didn’t come through.” Greg recaptured her hand. “You knew I went for the interview.”
Because he didn’t want to upset the head of Emergency Medicine at St. Joseph’s who’d recommended him, but it wasn’t supposed to mean anything. “You said you didn’t have a chance.”
“You know how it goes. Want something too much, it practically guarantees you won’t get it.”
Like her wanting to stay in Denver.
But if he wanted San Francisco , why hadn’t he shared that with her? Instead he’d joked about what a disaster the trip had been, how he forgot to pack dress shoes and worried about it until an inept waiter made it a moot point by dumping coffee on him at breakfast.
They’d laughed about it, and somehow she’d failed to notice how much it mattered to him. But he had to know leaving Denver mattered to her.
He pulled on her hand. “Come on. We’re blocking traffic.”
She went along with him, her thoughts still churning, numb to the sight of daffodils and budding trees as he led the way to the Japanese garden where he’d asked her to marry him. When they reached the bench in the corner, he sat and pulled her down beside him wrapping his arm around her. She leaned away.
“What is it?” He cocked his head, giving her what she thought of as his doctor look. “You aren’t coming down with something are you?”
“I may be.” Her throat tightened, and her nose itched.
“A cold?”
She shook her head. “About San Francisco. Have you accepted?”
“Of course.”
Of course? Could the man she loved be oblivious? “Don’t you think we need to talk about it?”
“What’s to talk about?” He looked puzzled.
That we agreed. We wouldn’t leave Denver. “The University of Colorado, maybe. Did you hear from them yet?” It was a struggle but she’d managed to keep her tone calm.
“They called last week.”
“And?”
He shrugged. “They offered me the spot.”
For an instant his image wavered as if she were seeing it in a funhouse mirror. “You didn’t tell me.” They offered you the spot. They offered you the spot!
“I was waiting to see if San Francisco called. Look, Kit, if you wrote a novel, and you got an offer from Random House and another from Podunk Press, which would you choose?”
If she said anything more right now she’d likely regret it. Instead, she switched her focus to a middle-aged couple walking through the garden. The man leaned toward the woman and said something that made her laugh. Kathy watched the two until she thought she could speak without raising her voice. “The University of Colorado isn’t exactly Podunk U.”
“True, but San Francisco, Kit. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.”
Did Greg’s rich baritone carry a hint of irritation? But what right did he have to be irritated? Her life was the one being uprooted, and he needed to show some sensitivity to that fact.
“It’s only two years, babe. No biggie. Besides, it’s not like you’ve lived in Denver your whole life or anything.”
He gave her his most ingratiating smile, and an overwhelming urge to shake him had her clutching her hands together.
“You’ll love San Francisco.”
Wrong. Denver was her home now. She’d chosen it, let herself get attached. Promised herself she wasn’t moving again. And two years was more than nothing. It was as long as she’d lived any one place when she was growing up.
Moving. With a father in the Air Force, she knew all about it, and she’d had enough. Enough of leaving behind all that had become familiar and dear. Enough of starting over with new friends, new neighbors, new schools. New dentists, new doctors, new jobs. Enough of packing and unpacking. Enough wrong turns and ending up in wrong places.
Just enough.
She tried to speak, but her throat felt like it was full of sand. She swallowed. “So, tell me. Is this how you plan to handle decisions affecting the two of us once we’re married?” Her voice began to spiral, like a car going out of control on an icy curve. “You decide, then you tell me what you’ve decided.” She clamped her lips shut, moving her fingers in a silent count.
“Of course not. But it’s my career so really that makes it my decision.”
“So. Does that mean since I’m the one who gets pregnant, it’s my choice whether we have children?”
“That’s ridiculous. Kids would affect both our lives.”
“And your decision to go to San Francisco doesn’t affect my life?”
Greg cleared his throat, lifted his eyes to hers and spoke with apparent sincerity. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have accepted without discussing it with you.”
Darn right, he shouldn’t have. She took three more breaths, staring at him, willing him to look away. He didn’t.
“I’m really, really sorry,” he said.
He did look sincere. And regretful. She continued to glare at him.
Finally he lowered his gaze. “I didn’t think. Being engaged—it’s so new. I just didn’t realize. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I accept your apology.” Her voice was stiff and jerky, but she made no effort to smooth it.
He reached for her hand, and she let him have it.
“You are so damn beautiful.”
He almost got away with it—distracting her from her anger, not to mention from the fact they hadn’t resolved anything.
“We still need to figure out what we’re going to do,” she said.
“I thought we had.”
She tipped her chin to meet his eyes.
“We’re going to San Francisco, and…” His voice drifted to a halt.
Her world sped up, then abruptly slowed. Images hurtling by too quickly for her to identify came into stark focus. Beyond the clear blue of his eyes and the gold of his hair. Beyond the breadth of his shoulders and the corded muscles of his arms, how well did she know this man? And was this what being married to him would be like? Sudden announcements—he’d bought a house, a car, changed jobs—without it ever occurring to him to consult her before he did it?
A fleck of lint clung to the side of his mouth. Her eyes locked on that speck.
“What?” Greg swiped at his face, dislodging the lint.
Kathy blinked, noticing for the first time his hair was beginning to thin at the temples. A sudden image of Greg with thinning hair and an expanding paunch made her smile.
He grinned back. “Good. It’s settled then.”
She closed her eyes, shutting out the vivid blue of the sky and the fresh spring green, struggling to come to terms with the idea.
“You’re scaring me, babe. Come on. It’s not the end of the world, you know.”
But it was the end of something.
“What can I do to make this easier for you?”
She wished she knew.
Later, she decided if this had happened to a friend—a fiancé announcing a major decision without any consideration for her friend’s wants and needs—she’d have advised that friend to tell the fiancé, now downgraded to eye-of-newt, what he could do with his decision.
But look at her. Note how she’d handled her fiancé’s announcement—made without any concern for her dreams and hopes—that they were moving to San Francisco.
Yeah, look at her.
She was packing, dammit.
And why was that, exactly?
Because she loved him, of course. It was their first…no not a fight. A difference of opinion. He hadn’t stopped to think, but once he did, he’d apologized. Sincerely.
Sitting next to him, listening to his reasons, seeing how much he wanted to go to San Francisco, she’d been unable to deny him.
Compromise. Essential to any relationship. This time, his turn, next time, hers. Sacrificing for someone you loved was noble. And since that afternoon, they’d worked things out. Everything was fine again. Would be fine. The bright glow had dimmed only a little. After all, his dedication to his career was one of the reasons she loved him.
She’d dated enough to know a man who treated her with such care and thoughtfulness—well, most of the time—wasn’t as rare as hens’ teeth. But men like that sure weren’t thick on the ground either.
With a sigh, she opened the bottom drawer of the dresser, lifted out a pile of sweaters, and plopped them willy-nilly into one of the cartons Greg had dropped off.
San Francisco. It was, as he’d pointed out, only two years. She could manage two years. Except…
She froze in the act of adding a pair of jeans to the sweaters and sat back on her heels. How could she have overlooked that one, casual line. “My pick of positions when I finish.”
She’d been so focused on the main issue of the move, she’d let him slip right by her the hint that after his residency he might accept a position someplace he considered more prestigious than Denver.
But would he, really?
Before he announced his plan to go to San Francisco, she would have said no way.
And now? She narrowed her eyes, staring at the photo of Greg on the small table to her right.
Darn right he would.
So, was this how she planned to handle it? Pack and meekly tag along? As if everything she wanted, needed was unimportant when stacked up against Greg’s “career”.
Startled, she stared at the shreds of cardboard in her hands and realized she was halfway through tearing apart a box.
Listen to your heart, Kathleen. It’s telling you what to do.
Well, this was certainly a fine time for her Emily tape to start.
Except, it was really. The exact right time.
Because whenever she was confused or worried, all she needed to do was tap into an Emily memory or dig out one of Emily’s diaries, the way some people do the Bible. She’d pick up one of the small, leather books, open it at random and read. It always calmed her, and from that calm, her answer would come.
“Kathy dear, how is the packing coming?” Kathy’s tiny landlady stood in the doorway, her halo of white hair backlit by light from the hall window.
Kathy shifted her gaze from Mrs. Costello to the shreds of cardboard. “Oh, just peachy.”
“That’s good to hear.” Mrs. C raised her eyebrows a notch, eyeing the demolished box. “You know, dear, we’re going to miss you something fierce when you leave.”
“Oh, and I’m going to miss you, Mrs. C.” Kathy scrambled to her feet to give her landlady, who smelled of warm bread and cinnamon, a hug. Mrs. C’s foundation garment made her feel stiff, but Kathy recognized the returned affection in the pats the older woman gave her.
Mrs. C stepped back and used her apron to wipe moisture from her eyes. “What a couple of sillies we are.” She patted Kathy’s arm. “You go on with your packing, dear. You don’t want to hold up that young man of yours. I just wanted to tell you, dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes.”
Kathy leaned on the doorjamb after Mrs. C left, looking at her room: the floral carpet with its pattern of pink cabbage roses, the four-poster bed with its white chenille spread, the vanity with its stiffly starched doily centered on top. Chances were it had looked exactly the same for at least fifty years; but maybe that was why she was so attached to it.
When she’d rented the room, she planned on staying only a week or two, until she found someone to share the expense of an apartment, but five years had passed, and she was still here. She’d stayed, not only because Mrs. C was a wonderful cook and the house only a short walk to Calico Cat Books where she worked, but because she’d grown to love the Costellos who treated her like a favorite granddaughter.
She’d even chosen to remain after her engagement to Greg, despite his efforts to get her to move in with him. But really, it made no sense to add a forty-minute commute to each end of her day when Greg spent most of his nights at the hospital.
And did it make any more sense for her to leave a job and a city she loved for the short time Greg would be in San Francisco?
Of course, staying in Denver would mean putting off the wedding, and Greg probably wouldn’t be happy about that.
Still…
She closed her eyes, concentrating. I have an idea. It’s not ideal, but I know we can make it work. Why don’t I stay in Denver? You’ll be so busy at the hospital, you won’t have all that much free time, so really it makes sense. And whenever you get a break, I’ll come for a visit.
Okay, not bad. It could use sharpening, but those were the main points.
She had a sudden vivid picture of Greg running his hands through his hair the way he did when he was tired or nervous. “But if you really loved me, you’d come with me.”
Her eyes flew open. The words rang so clear, she almost expected Greg to be standing in front of her.
But was that really what he’d say?
Probably.
We’ll stay close. By writing and talking, she told the phantom Greg. Two years is nothing. Good. His own argument used against him. Before you know it, you’ll be finished and moving back to Denver. The time will fly.
“I need to think about all this, Kitten. I didn’t expect it.”
She hated being called Kitten, but it wasn’t easy to point that out to someone who wasn’t there.
Chapter Three
Alan stood and stretched. Time for his first one-on-one, get-acquainted meeting with his new department head, Hilary Hilstrom. Not something he was looking forward to after her unexpected visit to his class. He slipped his tie over his head, pulled the knot snug, then plucked his jacket from the back of the door and shrugged it on.
Hilstrom’s assistant glanced up when he walked in. “Professor Francini. My, you’re prompt. I’ll tell her you’re here.”
As she made the call, Alan shifted until the toe-dancer in the picture hanging over the assistant’s head seemed to be rising out of her tangle of gray curls. It was an amusing and curiously satisfying image; one that would have appealed to Meg.
Meg…
“…right in,” the assistant said. “She’s ready for you.”
It happened that way sometimes. A sudden vision of Meg, bending over a wildflower maybe, or taking off her hat to let the breeze blow her hair, and the real world would fade. It was a relief when the dream released him before anybody noticed his distraction.
He stepped through the doorway into the inner office, and felt momentarily disoriented. The old chairman’s filing system had consisted of proliferating stacks of paper covering every available surface, and his only concession to the gods of decoration and order had been floor to ceiling bookshelves. Now all that was gone, and a desk and computer work-station were tucked into a corner like an afterthought, while most of the space was given over to a chair, sofa, and coffee table ensemble.
Hilstrom greeted him, gesturing toward the sofa. He sat and glanced around, his gaze coming to rest on two framed prints on the opposite wall—a Picasso, its dark, slashing lines contrasting with a Monet, indefinite as fog. The juxtaposition hinted Hilstrom either had a sense of humor—something he’d begun to doubt—or she was clueless.
He looked away from the pictures, trying to regain his focus as she picked up a folder from the desk and came to sit in the chair across from him.
“I thought we might start with you telling me what you consider your major accomplishment in your five years here.” She sat back, ceding the floor to him.
He’d expected the question, but he took a moment to gather his thoughts before speaking briefly about the techniques he’d developed to teach grammar, after reading about the effect of music on learning.
When he stopped speaking, she waited a beat, perhaps to give him a chance to add more. When he didn’t, she spoke briskly, saying the approach sounded interesting, her favorite word it seemed.
“I see you’ll be coming up for tenure next fall. That means we need to discuss your publication record.” She glanced at the file. “It appears you’ve been writing primarily for education journals.” She peered at him over the top of her glasses. “What I want to know is whether you have any plans to write fiction.”
“Is that an issue?” He’d heard rumors about Hilstrom’s single-minded approach to publication; he just hadn’t believed them. Had chosen to label them an interesting but unlikely approach.
She pulled off her glasses and looked him in the eye. “Fiction is our future, Alan, and I don’t intend to support anyone for appointment, reappointment, tenure, or promotion who isn’t writing it.”
The shock froze him, until a welcome spurt of annoyance thawed the sudden cold. Good God, the woman ought to be writing ad copy somewhere, not directing a large, complex department at a major university. What had the search committee and the dean been thinking? He sat back, adding distance between them.
“There’s entirely too much deadwood writing non-fiction in our tenured ranks already,” she added.
So what was deadwood using to write its non-fiction with these days? Pen? Typewriter? Computer? He pictured a row of bare tree branches holding pens and leaning over sheets of paper and almost smiled.
She paused, apparently to allow him an opportunity to respond, but he had nothing to say.
“You’re not much of a talker.” She cocked her head and twirled her glasses examining him.
“Better to be thought a fool…” He kept his tone calm and neutral, something he’d discovered was useful whether he was dealing with an agitated student, a frightened animal, or an academic administrator.
“Than to open your mouth and remove all doubt,” Hilstrom finished when he didn’t. “Yes. I do realize I’m changing the rules on you late in the game, but you have six months to make adjustments before you turn in your dossier.” She tapped the glasses on her teeth. “I know you’ll need time to think about all this. Then if you have questions or concerns, simply ask to see me.” She set his file and her peripatetic glasses on the table. “After all, that’s what I’m here for.”
With a professional smile and a brief, hard handclasp, she dismissed him.
Juggling beers and hot dogs, Alan and Charles Larimore settled into their seats at Coors Field. Charles, who hated to miss even a single hamstring stretch, focused immediately on the players who were warming up.
Alan took a gulp of beer. “So how goes the fight against the forces of evil?”
Charles spoke without turning his head. “Another week, another fifteen drug dealers, two robbers and a rapist out on bond.”
“You could always give up the frustration and go for the big corporate bucks.”
Charles grimaced at Alan over the rim of his beer. “Somebody’s got to be stemming the tide. Besides, most corporate law’s as dull as a machete used to chop rocks.”
“Ever think maybe there’s a good reason ‘stemming’ rhymes with ‘lemming’?”
“You’re no better. Stemming the tide of illiterate lemmings at DSU.”
They stood to let a group into the row, then sat back down.
“I met with Hilstrom last week.” Alan’s gut tightened as he recalled the meeting. The woman was a menace.
“How’s she settling in?”
“Fine. She’s sure not someone I’d choose to be marooned with, though.”
“And let me guess who that might be. I’d have to say your horse. What’s his name again?”
“I’ll give you a personal introduction anytime you say.”
“No way.” Charles shook his head emphatically. “Urban cowboy through and through, that’s me. Four on the floor means a gearshift, not hooves. You do realize horses are large, dangerous animals.”
It was a well-established position. Although Charles was a regular visitor to the ranch, he politely and pointedly declined any opportunity to get near a horse.
The sharp plop and crack of balls hitting gloves and bats began to punctuate their conversation.
“You need to jolly the lady along a bit,” Charles said, returning to the original subject. “Tell her she’s looking fine. Soften her up.”
A picture popped into Alan’s head of Hilstrom sliding off her chair and melting into a small colorful puddle with her glasses floating on top. Rather like the Wicked Witch of the West who, come to think of it, Hilstrom resembled.
It was one of the things Alan liked best about Charles, that the other man always said something that brought an amusing image to mind.
The amusement was short-lived, however, as Alan told Charles the rest. “She won’t support me for tenure unless I’m writing fiction.” Not that there was anything wrong with Hilstrom’s ambition. Except, she acted like writing fiction was as easy as turning on a tap.
Charles gave him the gimlet look he no doubt used to good effect on reluctant witnesses. “What about your novel? Hell, it’s got to be a thousand pages by now.”
“Not finished.” And never going to be. A fact he had no intention of sharing with Charles. Or anyone else. The familiar, hollow feeling kicked in, and he tried to smother it with more beer and the last bite of hot dog.
“About this focus on fiction. Is this the first time it’s come up?”
“Yeah.”
Charles shrugged. “Well then, you can surely put their asses in a sling with a suit.”
“A suit would be as hard on me as them.” No way was he suing, and Charles knew it.
“You can always try dangling the possibility of a suit. Ask the lady to document where writing fiction was a requirement for tenure. If it wasn’t mentioned before, she has to know she doesn’t have a legal leg to stand on.”
Charles stopped to take a gulp of beer, but Alan saw the wheels were still turning.
“Partly she may be trying it out to see how you react.”
“It’s also politics.”
“Yeah. Not your strong suit. You don’t need to fawn. Just suck up a little.”
Alan shook his head, grimacing. “You put things so elegantly.”
“Hey, I was an English major, too.”
“Then threw your lot in with obfuscators.”
“Excuse me. Legal language is renowned for its unambiguous, articulate, erudite phraseology.”
Alan snorted, and Charles laughed before he turned serious again. “I know you fight only when it’s important to you, but you can’t let them screw you on this.”
Charles had that right.
They stood for the national anthem, and when it ended, Charles lifted his cup to signal the beer vendor. Once the fresh beers arrived, Charles took a drink, then spoke, obviously trying to sound casual. “A friend of Tiffany’s is coming for a visit. I’ve seen a picture. She’s hot. How about I set something up for the four of us next weekend?”
“I’m going to the ranch.”
“Lame, Francini.”
Alan clamped down on his irritation. This was the part of spending time with Charles he could do without. He tolerated it only because, with the exception of the one flaw, Charles was a good friend. “You’re right. But it’s what I’m doing.” Over the years, Alan had found partial agreement more effective than giving Charles an opening to start a debate.
“I miss her, too.” Charles treated the catch in his voice with a gulp of beer. “She’d want you to go out, you know.”
The remark was all the more startling, because Charles rarely mentioned Meg anymore.
“I am out.” And he’d been enjoying himself, with the sun warming his bare arms and the beer cooling his throat.
Until Charles reminded him Meg was gone.
And everything went flat.
Chapter Four
Kathy’s heart was pounding with excitement by the time she reached the end of the jet way where Greg waited for her. Finally. They’d be able to talk about…everything. All the uncertainty, the discomfort, would go away. She knew it would. They just needed to be together. She and Greg. The man she loved. The man she was going to marry one year and ten months from today.
“Kitten, it’s great to see you.”
She dropped her carry-on and threw herself into his arms. He kissed her, then stepped back. Too soon for Kathy. It had, after all, been three long months since she’d last been kissed or held.
Still, they were in a public place. She took a steadying breath and squeezed his hands, enjoying the solidity of touch after the months of disembodied phone and e-mail conversations.
“Let me look at you,” he said. “You are so beautiful.”
She’d missed that as well—Greg telling her she was beautiful. An exaggeration, but he always said it as if he believed it.
He twined a lock of coppery hair around a large finger, pulling gently to bring her close, then bent his head and kissed her again.
She settled into the kiss. That was more like it. “You’re not bad, yourself,” she murmured against his lips. In his case, an understatement. He was take-your-breath-away gorgeous, and right now, smiling into the deep, clear blue of his eyes, it was hard to recall why staying in Denver had ever seemed like a good idea.
When they reached Greg’s apartment, he set her bag down inside the door and pulled her into his arms. She’d been impatient for this moment all the way from the airport.
They kissed, undressing with clumsy haste, running their hands all over each other. Reconnecting after the long weeks apart. Afterwards, Kathy sighed with happiness as she curled against Greg. He stroked her hip with a fingertip, the motion slowing as his breathing deepened and he drifted off to sleep. Kathy dozed as well, her excitement easing into satiety and peacefulness.
When she awoke, Greg was still asleep. Knowing he slept whenever and wherever he could, she slipped out of bed and went to the bathroom to get dressed. Then, while she waited for Greg to wake up, she toured the apartment.
Greg had taken over the lease along with the haphazard furnishings from the previous toxicology fellow. Those furnishings, a mix of obvious cast-offs, were, nonetheless, oddly charming. And she could easily make it more charming: some pillows, an afghan throw for the sofa, curtains.
She wandered into the kitchen. Galley-size but adequate, with a small gas stove and an avocado-colored fridge. Greg’s additions were a microwave and coffee pot. Maybe the apartment’s owner would let her paint the cabinets. Currently they were a dirty beige, but painted white, with bright colored doors—red or green or…
So. She was considering it, was she? Moving to San Francisco.
She went back to the living room and sat on the sofa, curling her legs under her. From this angle a slice of Golden Gate Bridge was visible. She’d miss the mountains of course. Still this view might grow on her. Besides, it would be for only two—no less than two years now. A year and nine months. Actually, the move would take her at least a month. So make that a year and eight months.
She rolled the idea around like a toffee, tasting it.
When Greg walked into the living room, yawning and rubbing his head, she was still staring out the window, trying to decide.
“Hey, Kit. Deep thoughts?”
She smiled at him. “Just resting. Flying always makes me tired. Must be all the energy I put into keeping the plane in the air.”
“Nope, it’s the noise. Get yourself a pair of earplugs. Fix you right up.”
She’d forgotten that—how often Greg took something she said in jest and treated it as if it were serious. Well, earplugs probably were a good idea.
“If you’re hungry, we can walk over to Chinatown,” he said.
“I’d like that. Besides, I can use the exercise.” She sat up and slipped on her shoes.
“Hey, I thought we already took care of that.” He twitched his eyebrows in a fake leer, and laughing, she stood on tiptoe to kiss him.
After dinner, as they opened their fortune cookies, Greg’s phone rang. He checked the number, frowning. “Damn. It’s the hospital. And after Walton promised no calls tonight.” He half-turned away from her. “Yeah. What’s up?”
Kathy unfolded her fortune: You will be lucky in love. She looked across at Greg, her heart lifting. She already was. Her decision to move to San Francisco solidified.
While Greg talked on the phone, her attention drifted to a Chinese family seated nearby. The man and woman were helping their three young children to the dishes sitting on the lazy Susan in the middle of the table.
The children, all boys, with solemn, dark eyes and quick, shy smiles, were neatly dressed. Children. Three was a perfect number. Two blonds and one redhead. Two boys and a girl, or two girls and a boy, Greg and herself…
“I thought we agreed” Greg’s voice dropped abruptly. A moment later he ended the conversation, closed the phone, and turned back to her.
“Sorry, Kit. An acetaminophen overdose came in. Walton thinks I need to see it. We’ll need to take a cab back so I can pick up the car.”
She swallowed a spurt of irritation. Why didn’t people overdose between nine and five? Well, they did, of course. It just seemed like more of them chose to do it at night. She sighed, letting the irritation go. She’d already learned it was a waste of time to get upset.
Greg came in late, after she was already asleep, but he got up with her the next morning. After breakfast, he drove her by the medical center and pointed out the emergency entrance. “I bet I can drive this route in my sleep. As a matter of fact, it’s highly probable I have.”
“Aren’t we going in? I’d love to meet Walton.”
“When we have a late case, he doesn’t come in until noon.”
“We can stop by later, then.”
“Sure.” Greg reached over to fiddle with the radio button, while Kathy tried to decide if he was twitchier than normal this morning. Or maybe it only seemed that way because she hadn’t been with him for a while. He never did sit still, incessantly jiggling a foot or tapping a finger. She’d found the only way to deal with it was to ignore it.
“So what do you want to do today?” he said.
They decided on the Alcatraz tour, a visit to the Japanese Tea Garden in Golden Gate Park, and a ride on a cable car. Greg said that would be more than enough.
Kathy found Alcatraz haunting, but in the bright sun and brisk chop of the boat ride back to the mainland, her slight melancholy dissipated. And as it did, she realized San Francisco was beguiling her. Like Greg predicted it would in one of their first conversations after he moved. Guaranteed, Kit. Love at first sight. Like us.
A cool breeze brushed her cheek and made her shiver. Greg draped an arm on her shoulder and she shrugged off the unease.
After lunch, they wandered, sedate as fifty-year marrieds, through the Japanese Tea Garden, then reverting to childhood, they raced each other across a stretch of grass in Golden Gate Park. Greg built up a lead, then turned, caught her hands and swung her around and around in dizzying circles until they both collapsed to the ground laughing and exhilarated.
In the late afternoon, they returned to the apartment, made love, and afterwards they caught a cable car to the waterfront for dinner.
After dinner, Kathy curled up on the couch with a book while Greg worked on a case presentation for the following week. When his phone rang, he checked the number. Saying it was the hospital, he went to the bedroom, closed the door, and for the next twenty minutes, only the intermittent murmur of his voice was audible.
When he came out, she looked up. “An emergency?”
“Yeah.” His hair was standing up at odd angles as if he’d spent the entire call pulling on it.
Noticing his strained tone, she set her book down. “You need to go in?” She didn’t even mind too much if he had to spend the night at the hospital after having him to herself all day.
“Yes…no.”
“You don’t have to go in?”
“It wasn’t a case.” He sat in the chair next to the couch, rubbing his hands on his thighs.
She sat up, put her feet on the floor and leaned toward him. “But it was a problem.”
“Yeah. You could call it that.”
“You want to talk about it?”
He closed his eyes, then opened them and turned away. “I need to tell you something.”
He was scaring her, the way he looked and the tone of his voice. Her heart began thudding in a dull, heavy rhythm, and her stomach swooped as if she were in a free-falling elevator.
“…didn’t plan it, Kit. Julie and me. We, well we just…clicked.”
She shook her head. The words he’d spoken rattled around inside, like a handful of pebbles that needed to be sorted out and lined up before they made any sense.
“I don’t understand.” Her mouth was almost too dry to form the words.
He gave her an anguished glance and started wringing his hands. “I know. I know. I should have told you right away. No excuse. Stupid. Julie told me to.”
The elevator jarred to a halt as the words made sudden, awful sense. No! You can’t possibly love someone else. We’re engaged. You’re marrying me! The words piled up, broke free. “Why didn’t you tell me not to come?” Not what she thought she was going to say. Surprising her even more was the calm, detached manner in which she said it.
“I thought it would be easier. Better. If I told you in person.”
“You slept with me!” Her control slipped as the words lurched from her mouth.
He sat back abruptly, as if he’d been slapped.
Now there was an idea. Although she didn’t believe in violence, right this minute, she understood why it happened—could almost feel the relief a hard physical connection between her hand and his face would bring. Except. She didn’t want to touch him. Ever again. Or let him touch her.
She wrapped her arms around herself, holding on tight as he shifted around like a man with ants in his pants. Nasty, stinging, fire ants if the choice were up to her.
“I still have…feelings for you.” He gave her a pleading look. “I wasn’t sure. It’s been confusing, you know?”
No, she didn’t know.
“I had to see if what we had… If it’s over.”
“And is it?” She almost choked on the words, overwhelmed by the sudden, vivid memory of him swinging her around this afternoon, the two of them laughing with the sheer joy of being together. Or so she’d thought.
He nodded.
She clamped her lips shut to keep the whimper clogging her throat from emerging. A sudden pain made her realize she was digging her fingernails into her arms. Fingernails she’d splurged to have manicured for this trip. Probably he hadn’t even noticed.
She pushed back against the sofa cushions to get further away from him, fighting the temptation to leap up and rake her perfectly shaped nails across his beautiful, deceitful face. Carefully, she loosened her grip, slid her hands together in her lap, and took a breath. When she tried to speak, she found she had to stop to clear her throat. “I expect you’ll want your ring back.”
“That’s okay. You can keep it.”
And let him think he’d bought her off? No way. “Here. I’ve no use for it.” She slid the ring off her finger and laid it on the end table next to him, then re-clenched her hands in her lap.
She didn’t know how she was managing to sit on the couch as prim and composed as if she were at a tea party. Shock maybe. But whatever its cause, she was grateful for it. She would not cry in front of him.
“Look, Kitten. I didn’t do it to—”
“Don’t. Call. Me. Kitten.” The words ground out, surprising her as much as they seemed to surprise him. But then she’d never used that tone with him before. Quite possibly she’d never used that tone with anyone before.
“Sorry. Sorry.” He stood and backed carefully away from her, as if she were a rattlesnake coiled to strike. “I’ll get some things. Leave. You can stay here until you go back.”
“Just a minute.” She unclenched her jaw, but kept her tone firm. “I’m not through here.”
He froze.
“I want to get this straight. You’re in love with another woman, but you still slept with me.”
His eyes appeared glazed, and a feeling of power swept through her, momentarily pushing aside any possibility she might cry.
“Do you have any idea what that makes you?”
His body bowed slightly, as if he were folding in on himself.
She thought of all the names she could call him. Delicious, colorful, awful names. “You’re…despicable. Dishonest. And dishonorable.” Good strong spitting words, and she made the most of them. She eased her hands apart and took a breath, but she was finished. Less is more, she told herself. Too many words would dilute her contempt. Besides, if she kept talking, she might not be able to stop. Might start weeping. And she would not cry in front of him. Damn him.
After a stunned moment, he escaped into the bedroom, and she took a deep breath and closed her eyes against the pain beginning to spread inside her chest. A few minutes more, Kathleen Hope Jamison. Two minutes, three at the most. Then you can fall apart.
When Greg came out of the bedroom, he’d recovered his composure. “I’m really, really sorry about this.”
As if that would erase what he’d done.
“We can talk more if you want. Tomorrow. And here, this will help pay for your ticket. It’s all I’ve got on me.”
Kathy stared in disbelief at the hand holding money out to her. When she didn’t move to take it, he set the clutch of bills on the table.
For a moment their eyes met before his skittered away. He cleared his throat as if to say something more then, apparently thinking better of it, he picked up his bag and left.
She sagged in relief, taking several deep breaths, then glanced at the table. The money was where he’d placed it, but the ring was gone. She stared at the empty place where the ring had been, realizing abruptly how much she’d hated it. Hated it for what it represented. The excess and carelessness she hadn’t let herself think about, the lack of concern for her point of view she’d refused to acknowledge.
The large emerald-cut diamond had been Greg’s choice. “Hell, Kit, what’s more debt?” he’d said, when she protested it made more sense to pick a less expensive ring. “Only a couple of years before we hit the big time. Besides, you’ll have it forever.”
Right.
So why hadn’t she thrown it at him? It was the least she could have done, and probably what he expected her to do. But no. She’d let him off with words.
He’d taken her future and, with one sharp twist, skewed it into an unknowable shape. Then he walked out. Going to…what did he say her name was, Jeannie, Jennie? No Julie, that was it. No longer Kathy and Greg. Now it was Greg and Julie. Julie and Greg.
So why wasn’t she crying? Or yelling? Or something?
Instead she felt hollowed out, as if Greg had walked out taking with him not only a change of underwear but her emotions.
After a time, she managed to stand, her movements labored and stiff, like someone bruised all over from a terrible fall.
Falling in love. Right. More like floating in love. But this…this…Angrily she gave up trying to find the right word. This other thing that just happened. That was falling.
She searched until she found a phone book, called Continental Airlines and reserved a seat on the six a.m. flight to Denver. One step at a time. Then she went to the bedroom, and averting her eyes from the bed, re-packed. One step at a time. She called a cab and, without looking back, left the apartment.
Continental’s ticket counter was closed for the night, and only a few people were scattered around the terminal. A janitor pushed a mop to the rhythms of whatever played in his headphones, and a young man slept on the floor with his backpack under his head, both of them blissfully unaware of their surroundings. Envy of their oblivion flared, faded.
She chose a seat away from everyone else. The unreality that set in after Greg left the apartment lasted through the remainder of the night. She knew it would eventually desert her, but as long as it lasted, she accepted it with relief.
In the morning, as the clerk did the ticket rewrite, Kathy handed over her credit card, letting herself neither think about the additional cost nor question her decision to leave Greg’s money, torn into hundreds of tiny pieces, on the table. Shredding it had been a totally mad, but completely satisfying thing to do.
Still numb, she boarded the flight. Halfway back to Denver, without warning, the numbness wore off, and pain and anger surged through her in a huge, swamping wave. She bit her lip, hard, to stop a howl and pressed her forehead against the window. Tears ran into her fingers, as six miles below, the landscape crept past, mostly a lifeless brown but here and there marked with the gaping red wounds of canyons.
Words. She’d let him off with words. Not enough. Never again would she not fight back when someone hurt her.
By the time they landed in Denver, the tears had stopped, and she was relieved to discover she no longer felt like crying. Instead she was so exhausted, she could barely keep her eyes open.
But then maybe that was just because she’d forgotten the earplugs.
