Twenty-Two

Whitney threw her suitcase into her trunk and breathed in the warm, humid air of her home state. It wasn’t bad, not by southern standards, but the temperate climate of California had spoiled her. She turned on the air conditioner and waited while the engine warmed up. There was no reason to hurry. She didn’t want to go home to her stark town house and empty refrigerator, not just yet. Maybe she would drop in on her parents.

The broken white line of the two-lane highway divided blue-green hills and rolling flatlands. Whitney felt something tight inside herself unfurl as she traveled the road studded with white wooden churches and brick school buildings, faded farmhouses and red barns, children riding bikes, and this year, because the temperature was unseasonably warm for Kentucky, men and women rocking and chatting on wraparound porches.

Miles went by unnoticed as the land rose up and fell away. White-trunked aspen and liquid amber maples sported new growth, heralding the height of the season. As she traveled deeper into horse country, split-railed fences and signs indicated the Thoroughbred farms for which the region was famous.

She found Boone where she always found him, in his office in the barn.

He greeted her warmly. “You’re home. It’s about time.”

“Hi, Daddy,” she said wearily, sinking into the shabby sofa her mother had relegated to Goodwill long ago and Boone had rescued. “I thought you and Mama might like some company.”

“You can bet on that. Does she know you’re home?”

“Not yet. I wanted you all to myself first.”

Boone rubbed his forehead in a futile attempt to erase the frown in the middle. “Is everything all right, sugar?”

“Of course. Why would you ask that?”

“You’ve been gone two weeks. Your mama was worried. I hope your trip was successful.”

“It was all right. I’m not sure you could call it a success, professionally speaking, that is.”

“What about not professionally?”

Whitney sat up. “Spit it out, Daddy.”

“Your mama thinks you’ve got something going With Gabriel Mendoza.”

Whitney blushed. “That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s what I told her. Lila Rae concocted some fool idea of you and your mother going away together for a weekend.”

Whitney stared unseeing at her father. She was thinking of Kristen Mendoza and her unnatural desire to rid herself of her children. “That’s not a bad idea,” she said slowly. “Maybe Mama and I should take a weekend for just the two of us. We could both use a vacation.”

Boone frowned. “Something happened to you out there in California.”

“People change, Daddy,” Whitney said gently. “How long has it been since you and Mama have taken a trip together?”

Boone was silent for a long minute. “To tell you the truth,” he admitted, “I don’t think we’ve been away alone together since before you were born.”

“That’s terrible,” she said flatly.

“I guess it is.”

“Maybe you should plan a real vacation.”

“I can’t leave just like that. What about the horses?”

“The horses will always be here, Daddy. If you keep telling yourself you can’t go because of a horse, you’ll never go.”

“I never have seen Santa Anita,” he admitted. “I’d like that.”

“Racing season has already started. You better hurry.”

“Yes, sir.” Boone rubbed his chin. “I’d really like to see it. Just to walk the place where Seabiscuit won the Santa Anita Handicap would be really something. My daddy worked there for a while. Did you know that?”

Whitney shook her head.

“Oh, yes, he sure did.” Boone leaned back in his chair. He loved relaying a good story. “He told me about that track—‘the best in the West’ he called it—right up there against the San Gabriel Mountains. He was there when it reopened after the war in 1945. Did you happen to visit it when you were there?”

“No. California’s a big state.” She knew she sounded defensive.

“It’s not that big, honey. Arcadia can’t be that far from Ventura, no more than an hour and a half. I checked.”

Whitney sighed. “You’re the one who loves the track, Daddy, not me. It’s always been just the horses for me. Besides, I had other things on my mind.” She rubbed her temples. “I’m sure Mama would be thrilled if you planned a trip with her.”

“I’ll think about it.” Boone grinned, leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms behind his head. “So, sweetheart, tell me, why a spur-of-the-moment visit from my favorite daughter?”

Whitney shrugged. “I missed you.” She looked around her father’s office. “I missed all of this. In California, I found myself in the middle of the whole horse thing again. It’s different, and yet it’s not.”

“Those Lipizzaners are spectacular horses. I’d like to see them.”

Whitney nodded. “They’re beautiful in their own way, not like Thoroughbreds, just different. Dressage is a far cry from racing.” She looked pointedly at her father. “It’s not as cruel.”

Boone nodded. “That’s true. I’m not proud of it. I wish it was different, but money is the bottom line. One slip on a wet track and a beautiful three-year-old is euthanized. It’s not right, but it’s the way it has to be.”

“Why?”

“Because a million-dollar animal isn’t a pet, Whitney. There’s too much at stake. Unless he’s a stallion and a winner, unless his owner can recoup his losses with stud fees, it’s not worth keeping him alive.”

“I hate that,” she said vehemently. “It isn’t right.”

Boone sighed. “I know you hate it, honey. That’s why I didn’t try to convince you to stick it out with me in the business. I saw right away that you didn’t have the stomach for it, and I mean that as a compliment. You’re a softie at heart. That’s why your profession of choice surprised me. I thought maybe you’d go into teaching or pediatric medicine.” He shrugged. “Not that it matters, so long as you’re happy. You are happy, aren’t you, Whitney?”

“Sometimes.” She remembered her first conversation with Mercedes. “No one is happy all the time.”

“I’ll settle for most of the time. Are you happy most of the time?”

“I think so.” She frowned. “It isn’t as though I ask myself that question on a regular basis. I just go on living.”

“That’s no answer, sweetie. If you’re happy, you’d know it.”

“Are you happy, Daddy?”

“You bet.” His wide smile was genuine. “Every day of my life, I wake up believing I’m the luckiest man alive. I’m married to the only woman I’ve ever loved. I live in God’s country. My bills are paid. I have a gorgeous, successful daughter and I get to do the only work I’ve ever wanted. What could be better than that?”

“Nothing, I guess,” Whitney admitted. She’d always known that her father’s expectations, unlike her mother’s, weren’t particularly high. On the hierarchy of personality types, from simple to the most complicated, Boone was very close to the bottom. She loved him, even envied him, for the basic person he was, but didn’t for a minute compare herself, or her mother, to him. Pryor Benedict, despite her protestations otherwise, was a very sophisticated personality. Whitney knew she’d spent a good part of her early marriage in a state of seething frustration over what she perceived as her husband’s lack of depth. Personally, Whitney believed she’d sold her father short. On occasion, when he was interested, he showed exceptional insight. It wasn’t often enough to suit Pryor, but, even so, Whitney believed her mother was happier lately, since she’d reconciled to herself that Boone would always be Boone and if she wanted intellectual stimulation, she would have to find it with her friends.

“I guess I should go in and see Mama,” Whitney said, but she didn’t get up.

Her father looked at her and closed the ledger he was working on. “How about the three of us getting something to eat and you can tell me all about California.”

She laughed. “You’re just feeling sorry for me because I’m at loose ends.”

“Not at all. Your mama and I need to eat. You need to eat. We all like company. I’ll tell you what. Let me change out of these horse-smelling clothes and we’ll go to that barbecue joint your mother refuses to let me see the inside of. I’ll buy.”

“It’s a deal, as long as you order the chicken with a side of beans and a salad. No ribs, no cole slaw and no butter-drenched corn.”

Boone groaned. “You get more and more like Pryor every day.”

“We love you. We want you to be around for a long time.”

Two hours later, Whitney and Pryor sat beside each other in the sitting room at Whitney Downs, drinking tea from cups of paper-thin china. “I missed you,” her mother said.

Whitney smiled. “Me, too.”

“I know you’re an adult, and a very capable one, too, but I was worried about you,” Pryor said honestly. “You’ve never behaved like this before.”

“Like what?”

“Well, let’s see.” Pryor ticked off on her fingers what she believed to be her daughter’s transgressions. “You took more than a week from your job. You accepted responsibility for a man, three children, an injured woman and a bed-and-breakfast. You neglected to check your e-mail. I know, because I sent you at least one message every day and you haven’t mentioned or responded to any of them. When you spoke to me on the phone, your conversations were completely unlike yourself.”

Whitney frowned. “What does that mean?”

Pryor laughed. “My darling girl. You are an extremely efficient, matter-of-fact young woman with one of the most organized minds I’ve ever been privileged to know. In California, you sounded scattered. You couldn’t tell me when you were coming home. You had no answers when I asked you about the progress of the offer for which your firm sent you in the first place, and all you talked about with any rationality at all was that child’s condition, which I can’t remember the name of right now.”

“Asberger’s,” Whitney replied. “Claire has Asberger’s syndrome. I’m sorry I worried you, Mama.”

“To tell you the truth, Whitney, at first I was worried, but when I really thought about it, I was relieved, too.”

“Relieved?”

“Yes. For the first time you sounded so...so... normal. It’s normal to care about things outside of your job.”

“Is that what you think? That all I care about is my job?”

Pryor nodded. “I have a confession to make. Sometimes, I feel incompetent around you and I wonder if you see me that way, too.”

Whitney stared at her mother. “Never once has that crossed my mind.”

Pryor sighed. “Thank goodness. You have no idea how relieved I am.” Her forehead wrinkled. “Why are you so involved with those people? I was worried that you’d been brainwashed by some California cult.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It happens, Whitney.”

“Not to me. You know me better than that.”

“I thought I did, until now.”

Whitney’s scowl took thirty years off her age. Pryor was reminded of the stubborn little girl with scraped knees and tangled hair who’d thrown herself into her arms and sobbed when her friends, tired of her unrelenting domination, requested that she go home. She bit back a smile. Now was not the time for reminiscing.

“Clearly, I haven’t been taken in by a cult,” Whitney said wearily.

“I realize that now and I realize something else, as well.”

“What’s that?”

“There isn’t a darn thing I could do about it if you were.”

Whitney laughed. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you admit such a thing.”

“May I ask you a personal question?”

“If you must.”

“Will you be honest with me?”

“I’ll try.”

“I think you’re involved with Gabriel Mendoza.”

Whitney stared at her.

“Am I right?”

“No.”

Gray eyes met gray. The space between them sizzled with tension.

“I am not involved with Gabriel Mendoza,” Whitney repeated.

“Would you like to be?”

Whitney hesitated.

Pryor wagged her finger at her daughter. “You said you would try.”

“Oh, all right.” Whitney set down her cup. “I’m attracted to him. He’s intelligent, unassuming and hard working. He’s also very unusual.”

“He lives in California and he has three children,” Pryor reminded her.

Whitney sighed. “I know. I thought that being there in the middle of his family would help me decide if I could handle it.”

“And?”

“And, nothing. I was too busy to really get to know him. Besides, I went to California in a professional capacity. It would have been unethical to make it personal.”

Pryor’s eyes widened. “So you came home, just like that.”

“Not exactly. I’ll know more as soon as I get this offer sewn up. I’m beginning to believe it might not happen. Gabriel doesn’t want to sell his horses.”

“Why not?”

“It has something to do with his father.” She shrugged. “I’m still trying to figure out what kind of man turns down millions of dollars to keep a legacy alive.”

“Maybe that’s his allure for you.”

“Maybe.” She looked at her mother. “I thought you wanted me to get married to someone with prospects.”

“Of course I do.”

“But?”

“Are we talking marriage, Whitney? Can you really think seriously about this man given all of his obligations and the geographical distance between you? Money isn’t everything, you know. In fact, if there’s too great a disparity in what each partner brings to a marriage, that can cause problems, too. You can’t be thinking of relocating to California!”

“No. I don’t think so. I don’t know. I’m confused. How will I ever know if I rule him out immediately?”

“Sweetheart.” Pryor took Whitney’s hands in her own. “This isn’t something to try out, not with a man like Gabriel Mendoza. Think about this. His children are vulnerable. The very fact that he has them, and his ex- wife doesn’t, says a great deal. He’s been hurt. This isn’t your ordinary corporate type whose profile has been matched up with yours, and forty others, in some vague Internet database. This is a good man with three children and a widowed mother. I’m sure the family is lovely, but they won’t be if you play with him.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Fair or not, it’s an accurate assessment of the situation,” Pryor said flatly. “You don’t have to admit it to me, but if you’re honest with yourself, you’ll know what to do.”

Whitney changed the subject. “I have to go home and think of what I’m going to tell Everett tomorrow. He won’t be pleased.” She stood and kissed her mother’s cheek. “I’m leaving now. Sleep well.”

“Whitney?”

“Yes?”

“You aren’t that involved with Gabriel, are you? I mean—that is—you haven’t...” She left the sentence unfinished.

For an instant, Whitney was confused. Then she understood. “No, of course not. This isn’t a movie. I was there two weeks and we were surrounded by children.”

Pryor held her glance for a long minute. Satisfied, she stood. “Daddy and I will walk you to your car.”

Inside the door of her town house, she dropped her bags in the entry and switched on lights as she moved from room to room. The button on her answer machine blinked demandingly. The number to the right indicated thirty-four messages. She pressed the button and walked back to her suitcases, where she rummaged in her carry-on for the bottle of wine she’d brought back with her. It was the same wine Gabriel had chosen on their one and only date.

Suddenly his voice was in the room with her, on the tape. Snapping into attention mode, she ran back into the kitchen, stopped the tape and rewound it. “Hello, Whitney. It’s Gabe. Obviously, you’re not home yet, but I couldn’t wait any longer. This place feels strange without you. What a difference two weeks makes.” He laughed. “I hope your flight went well.” He paused for a minute. “No pressure, but I’d sure like to hear from you. Take care.”

Her cheeks burned. She listened to the message once again, and then again after she’d poured herself a glass of wine. What did it mean? How much did it mean? He’d stepped out on a limb calling her so soon. He deserved to be called back immediately. She wanted to call him. She’d planned on calling him in a day or two, even if he hadn’t called her. But once she did, once she continued the connection, she knew there was only one way to move, and that was irrevocably forward. Women her age were either serious about finding someone or they removed themselves from the game. Which was she? What did she want?

Her mother was right. Gabriel had gone through enough. He wasn’t a man to be toyed with. A return call would mean she understood and accepted the rules. It meant she was in for the duration. In California, her mind had been so clearly made up. The pull of his family and all that she was missing was strong. The idea of such a commitment and all that it entailed was terrifying.

Whitney mulled over her mother’s words. Now she wasn’t at all clear. To call or not to call, that was the question. How appropriate that Shakespeare should come to mind when she thought of Gabe.

Mercedes washed her hands in the kitchen sink and smiled at Claire, who stood beside her. “Mijita, go into the pantry for your grandma and see if the avocados are ripe. I want to make some guacamole for your daddy.”

“For me, too?”

Mercedes looked surprised. “You don’t like guacamole.”

The little girl tilted her head. “Yes, I do.”

“All right. I’ll make some for you, too. Bring three avocados. That should be enough.”

Obediently, Claire opened the pantry door and disappeared inside. Soon she was back with three soft black avocados. “Here.” She handed them to her grandmother.

“Do you want to help me?” Mercedes asked.

Claire nodded.

“First, find a glass bowl. I’ll cut and peel and you can mash.”

“I like mashing,” Claire said slowly.

Mercedes slid a knife into the dark skin, cutting through the buttery flesh and severing the fruit in half. Then she scraped the yellow insides into the bowl. “Now,” she said, “it’s your turn.”

Carefully, Claire pressed the tines of her fork into the meat until it oozed out from under the metal.

“Good,” Mercedes encouraged her. “Keep doing that until it’s smooth. Then we’ll add jalapenos and lemon.” With the tip of her tongue curling against the corner of her mouth, Claire continued her task while her grandmother squeezed the juice from a lemon, chopped the chili pepper and added both to the mixing bowl.

“There now,” she said. “A little salt and pepper and we have the best guacamole there is.”

Claire dipped a tentative finger into the mix and tasted it. She nodded solemnly. “Daddy will like it.”

“Yes, he will.”

Claire frowned. “Gran? Why did Whitney go away?”

“Do you miss her, mijita?”

Claire nodded.

Sitting down heavily, Mercedes pulled the little girl onto her lap. “Whitney had to go home. She lives in Kentucky.”

“Will she come back?”

Mercedes looked down into the fragile, earnest face of Gabriel’s daughter and wondered which answer would be the least damaging. “Maybe,” she said. “In fact, I think it might be quite possible, but I can’t say for sure.” A thought occurred to her. “Do you want her to come back?”

Claire nodded.

“You must like her very much.”

Again Claire nodded. “She took me to ride Lorelei and she played with me on the swing set.” She met her grandmother’s black eyes. “I don’t feel different with her, Gran. Everybody else makes me feel different.”

Mercedes pulled her into a fierce hug. “I know, mijita, I know.” Once, in another lifetime, someone she couldn’t remember told her that grandchildren were all joy and no worry. All pleasure and no pain, she’d said. The woman was a fool.