Nineteen

Pryor Benedict replaced the phone carefully in its cradle, smoothed the nonexistent creases from her gray wool slacks and considered her black, exquisitely crafted, flat-heeled Brazilian leather boots. Deciding they would do, she gathered her purse and coat from the hall closet and set out on her mission. She didn’t look in the mirror. Pryor never looked in the mirror. She didn’t have to. Her morning ritual was enough. She never left her bathroom until she was completely satisfied with her appearance and then she never thought about it again, other than to reapply lipstick after each meal.

Settling herself in the car, she set the radio to her favorite classical music station, buckled her seat belt, adjusted the mirror and swung by the foaling barn to tell Boone she was leaving for the afternoon.

At the barn door, she called out the window. “Boone, are you in there?”

He came out immediately. “Where are you off to, honey?”

“Lila Rae invited me for tea.”

Boone kissed her cheek. “Give her my love. You girls have a good time, now.”

“We will. Don’t forget we have the Lesters coming for dinner at seven.”

Boone nodded. “Be careful.”

Pryor nodded and drove off, intent on her errand but not so intent that she didn’t notice what everyone involved in the delicate cycle of the equine industry noticed. As she drove, she scanned the landscape for the odd tuft of toxic fescue or white clover in the pasture, or black fences indicating a farm’s declining profits, or—thankfully absent this year—the dreaded line of trucks bearing dead foals lined up in front of the equine autopsy lab, casualties of the baffling plague that left Lexington’s five hundred breeding farms empty of more than three thousand foals.

Whitney Downs, like most of the breeding farms here in Kentucky, was a working farm. No fancy chandeliers lit the sheds. No oil or real estate money filtered down for owners to play with. Every penny made was from breeding, boarding and selling horses. Baby- making was what Pryor’s family had always done. It was what they knew. Far more than training or racing, the mating, foaling and auctioning of the season’s offspring consumed a manager’s days and put bread and butter on the table. Without babies, a farm was dead.

So was a family, reflected Pryor bitterly. Without new blood, the Whitney-Benedicts would fade into oblivion. The future rested on the shoulders of her only daughter. Pryor didn’t blame Whitney entirely for her lack of interest in continuing the family legacy. It was her fault, too. Hers and Boone’s. If only they’d had more children, or if Whitney had been a boy, maybe things would be different. Not that Pryor would have traded Whitney for a boy, but more children would have spread out the responsibility, improved the odds.

It was with this in mind that she’d called Lila Rae and weaseled an invitation for tea. Lila Rae was her mother’s only sister and something of a recluse now that she was well into her eighties. But age hadn’t dimmed her faculties, and her advice on everything from babies to marriage to the society pages was pure gold. Pryor couldn’t remember a time when the woman had led her astray.

She hadn’t troubled Lila Rae with family difficulties for a number of years, not since the Wiley Cane incident. It seemed to Pryor that she owed the woman a respite and the assurance that her visits weren’t always predicated by a family crisis.

Tallulah, her aunt’s housekeeper, who was nearly as old as Lila Rae, answered the door. She took Pryor’s coat and purse and sniffed disapprovingly. “Ol’ miss is waitin’ in the parlor,” she said. “Don’ be keepin’ her too long. She needs her afternoon nap.”

“How are you, Tallulah?” Pryor asked. She was not put off by the woman’s greeting.

“If people wouldn’ call up and ask ol’ miss if they could come for tea, I’d be a whole lot better.”

“Aunt Lila Rae likes company.”

“She don’ need company after lunch.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” Pryor said dryly.

“You do that.”

“Thank you, Tallulah. I’ll find my own way to the parlor.”

Lila Rae Whitney sat upright in a straight-backed chair, pearls at her throat, her silver-blue hair immaculately groomed in tight, even waves around her head. She wore hose and a navy St. John knit with white piping around the lapel and collar of the jacket. She didn’t rise, but held out both hands. “How lovely to see you, dear.”

Pryor kissed both cheeks and settled down across from her aunt in a stuffed wing chair. “Shouldn’t Tallulah be retiring?” she asked.

“Probably,” Lila Rae admitted. “But it would kill her. What would she do all day?”

“The same thing you do.”

Lila Rae laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Pryor sighed and changed the subject. “How are you?”

“I’m on the wrong side of eighty, Pryor. How do you think I am?”

“Full of vim and vinegar, as usual. I’m betting you live to be a hundred.”

The gray eyes widened in pretended shock. “Ladies never bet, dearest.”

Pryor knew she was pleased. “I have a problem, Aunt Lila Rae. I need your help.”

“Let’s have our tea first. Tea is so healing. It dissipates unpleasantness.”

As if on cue, Tallulah walked through the door bearing a tray complete with a teapot, porcelain cups and saucers, a sugar and creamer, lemon slices, spoons and forks with the initials EW delicately engraved on the handles, and two slices of a pale yellow cake studded with poppy seeds.

Lila Rae smiled. “Thank you, Tallulah.”

As usual, the woman’s surliness disappeared around her employer. So did her speech patterns. “You’re welcome, Miss Lila.” She switched on the ceiling fan. “Are you comfortable or do you want me to turn on the air conditioner?”

“We’re fine, aren’t we, Pryor?”

“Yes, just fine.”

“You can run along now, Tallulah. Miss Pryor and I want to be private.”

“Yes, miss.”

Pryor watched her aunt pour the tea. The blue-veined, paper-thin hands added a slice of lemon to both cups and two cubes of sugar to one. It was a ritual the old woman loved. She never forgot who took what in her tea. Pryor accepted the sugarless cup.

“How are Boone and Whitney?”

Pryor understood the routine. Everyone they had in common would be commented upon before the real purpose of her visit was allowed to come up. She didn’t think she could wait for all that. “They’re fine, Auntie,” she said impatiently.

“That nasty horse business of last year hasn’t resurrected itself, has it?”

“Not this season.”

“I surely hope not.”

“Whitney is in Los Angeles...well, not exactly in Los Angeles,” she amended, “but close by.”

“That girl certainly does get around.”

“The firm sent her.”

“I assumed as much.”

Pryor cut to the chase. “It’s about Whitney that I’ve come today.”

“I hope that’s not the only reason, dear.”

“Of course not,” Pryor said, embarrassed by her gaffe. “You know better than that. When’s the last time I’ve come to you to complain about something?”

“Now, now, Pryor.” Lila Rae shook her immaculately coiffed head. “There’s no need to be so defensive. You know you’re always welcome, no matter what the reason.”

“I know that, Auntie.”

“Now, then, tell me about Whitney.”

Pryor leaned forward, determined not to indulge in Tallulah’s lemon cake. She knew from sneaking a peak at the recipe that it contained a full cup of butter and another of heavy cream. The woman had never heard of margarine or Splenda. The fat content alone would be more than Pryor allowed herself in a week. “I told you Whitney was somewhere close to Los Angeles.”

“You said the firm sent her.”

“Yes, well, I don’t think she’s there now because of the firm.” In less than five minutes Pryor had informed her aunt of Austria’s offer for Gabriel’s horses, Mercedes’s accident and Whitney’s decision to stay and help out.

Lila Rae stirred her tea thoughtfully. “You’re not going to like this, Pryor.”

“Why not?”

“The child’s in love.”

Pryor groaned and leaned back in her chair, tea and lemon cake forgotten. “I thought so. I didn’t want to admit it, even to myself, but I knew it had to be that.”

Lila Rae nodded. “Your instincts always were good.” “But he’s got three children and an ex-wife.” “Whitney’s no spring chicken, dearest. If you want to see her married, you’ll have to make a few compromises.”

“But he lives in California. I want my grandchildren nearby, not thousands of miles away.”

Lila Rae hesitated. Her eyes were cast down in apparent contemplation of her tea.

“What is it, Auntie?” Pryor demanded. “I know you’re not through yet.”

The lovely gray eyes, so like Whitney’s, focused on Pryor’s face. “You’re not facing facts,” she said bluntly. “Whitney is thirty-six years old. Chances are good that she won’t have children of her own.”

“Thirty-seven,” Pryor said automatically. “Whitney is thirty-seven.”

“My point exactly.”

“Women her age and older have children all the time.” “

With difficulty,” the woman said. “I may be ancient, but I do keep up on the news.”

“She could still have them.”

“Yes, she could, and the sooner she tries, the better her chances are. Obviously this young man is fertile, if he has three children.”

“Only one is his.”

“One or three,” Lila Rae said matter-of-factly. “Either way, he’s proved himself.” She leaned forward and took her niece’s hand in her own. “You know that his virility isn’t really the most important question.”

Pryor’s lip trembled. “Yes. I know. What should I do, Lila Rae?”

A small smile curved the old woman’s lips. “If it were me, I’d have a heart-to-heart talk with the girl.”

Pryor’s mouth dropped. “You know how hard it is to get anything out of Whitney. She’s a very private person.”

“Sugar her up a bit,” her aunt suggested. “Drop in on her. Compliment her. You’re good at that, Pryor. Why can’t you behave that way with your daughter?”

“I can’t just drop in, Auntie. I have to give her some warning.”

“For pity’s sake, Pryor. You’re her mother. What’s the worst that can happen? She’ll say she’s busy and you’ll try again. Or else you could go somewhere together, you know, for the weekend, to one of those spas everybody’s talking about.”

“I’m afraid,” Pryor said honestly.

“My dear child, Whitney won’t throw you out. She’s a good girl, in spite of that streak of stubbornness that appears to run in our family.”

Pryor stared at the thin sliver of lemon floating in the amber pool of her tea. She couldn’t pick up and leave with Whitney for a weekend. It wasn’t just Whitney who would look at her as if she’d grown horns. Boone wouldn’t like it, either. He couldn’t manage on his own. Without her, his diet would be potato chips and macaroni and cheese. She’d come home to a husband who needed bypass surgery. She looked at Lila Rae. “What about Boone?”

“What about him?”

“He doesn’t know how to cook.”

“Have him eat out.”

“His cholesterol is high.”

“Make up his meals and freeze them.”

“He won’t eat them without me.”

“Boone isn’t a child, Pryor. He can be left alone for a few days. Women leave their husbands all the time.”

“I suppose so.” Pryor wasn’t convinced.

“Of course, there’s another way to look at it.”

“What’s that?”

“The unmarried state isn’t the worst thing in the world. I’m not married.”

“You’re eighty-six, Lila Rae, and you’ve had three husbands.”

“Your mind is going, Pryor. I’m eighty-two.”

She was eighty-six if she was a day, but Pryor knew better than to argue. “I want Whitney to be happy.”

“Then talk to her. If she’s serious about this young man, you’ll meet him. She can’t exactly hide him away forever. You have an obligation to your daughter to give him a chance.” Lila Rae shuddered delicately. “She made a dreadful mistake last time. I attribute it to her extreme youth. She won’t make that mistake again.”

The very thought of Wiley Cane stiffened Pryor’s resolve. “I’ll do it,” she said, her mind made up. “When Whitney comes home, I’ll figure out a way to have a long private talk with her. I’ll make her tell me the truth.”

“Good for you.” Lila Rae picked up Pryor’s untouched plate of lemon cake and offered it to her. “Here, darling, eat your cake. You don’t want Tallulah mad at you. She worked all morning over this dessert.”

Sighing, Pryor sampled a forkful of cake. The tart sweetness was everything she’d imagined it would be. Her fork went down for another bite, and then, throwing caution and saturated fat to the wind, yet another.

Lila Rae smiled. “It’s so lovely to have you here. You really should come more often.”

She told Boone while they were dressing, in preparation for the Lesters. She’d deliberately dallied while preparing the food, but now the salad was in the refrigerator and the Parmesan cheese sprinkled over the chicken divan. She mentioned it casually, after she’d screwed the backs of her diamond studs into place behind her ears and just before slipping her feet into her favorite suede ballet slippers. Pryor was tall, she had no need of heels, especially not at home with friends.

“I’m thinking of going away for a few days with Whitney.”

Boone stopped in the act of tying his shoes. “Is she home?”

“Not yet. But Lila Rae told me I should talk to her about Gabriel Mendoza. She suggested we go somewhere together for a weekend, you know, a mother- daughter thing?”

“What is your purpose, Pryor?”

“I just want the truth out of her, that’s all. She’s fallen in love with Gabriel Mendoza. I think we should know her plans.”

“What we should do is wait until she introduces him to us. Besides, how do you know she’s in love with him?”

“Lila Rae told me.”

“That’s wonderful, Pryor, just wonderful. Since when does Lila Rae have the inside track on Whitney?”

“You know she’s never wrong.”

“I don’t know any such thing.”

Pryor sat down beside her husband. “I wish you’d stop combing that strand of hair across your bald spot, Boone. It’s so vain and it doesn’t fool anyone.”

“We’re not talking about my hair. We’re discussing our daughter.”

Pryor wet her lips. “I have a bad feeling about this, Boone. I went to Lila Rae because I truly believe Whitney needs me. My intuition tells me she’s fallen for someone inappropriate again. I can’t live through another Wiley Cane. I just can’t.”

Boone left his shoe untied and took his wife’s hands in his own. “Whitney isn’t seventeen anymore, honey. She’s a thirty-seven-year-old woman. We can trust her to fall in love. She doesn’t need her mother’s approval. If you want to spend a weekend with her, I’m all for it. But do it because you miss her. She’s smart enough to figure out your motives, and then who knows when we’ll see her again.”

“I have to do something, Boone. I can’t just sit still while she makes another mistake. The man has three children. She can’t know what she’s getting into.”

Boone sighed. Never in thirty-eight years had he won an argument with Pryor. He would leave it to Whitney to upset her mother’s plans. The thing was, he couldn’t bear to see Pryor hurt. She wanted so badly to be part of their daughter’s life, but she hadn’t the faintest idea of how to go about it. “I wish you would listen to me, Pryor, just once.”

She was silent.

He shook his head, dropped her hands and resumed tying his shoes, evening out the loops, securing the knot with just the right degree of tightness. “I guess there’s no point in continuing with this discussion.”

“Are you mad at me, Boone?”

“I am.”

“Do you love me?”

She’d done it again, disarmed him completely. She knew by his answer.

“Always, honey. You know that.”

Pulling down his head, she kissed the spot where his hair no longer grew. “Thank you, Boone. I love you, too.”