Excerpt From Jo Grant’s Journal:
…So now I’m whining. Unlike Toss. When I’ve got more than most have to fall back on. A house I actually own, because of Mom’s insurance. The horse business too, putting food on the table. Plenty of folks would fight for both. But I keep looking out in front to the rest of what I think I want.
When I get it, if I do, I smile for a second and move on to something else. It’s not that working and striving and dreaming are bad. Art and science and inventions come out of that. But there’s something underneath how I cope that must be out of balance. Dad would say “Count your blessings and get to fixin’ the fence.”…
Alan drove home from the hospital through the darkening dusk, past dozing horses and sheltering hills on narrow winding roads. He turned north on Pisgah Pike and slowed on the curve by a small stone church, spare and classic and clean, that pioneers had built on that wooded hilltop as soon as they’d come from Virginia.
He braked again to take the tight turns that led down to a strip of valley, then crossed a shallow stream, and climbed alongside the pasture that belonged to the house he rented.
He turned left into the long drive and drove up the low hill, crawling through hard-packed ruts, once it curved to the left on the ridge past a creosoted tobacco barn and a shed filled with tractors. He parked in a gravel patch sheltered by trees, and walked down the grassy slope toward the back of his house.
He hadn’t expected it near Lexington, a small stone and clapboard cottage like the ones he’d seen in England; a Cotswold cottage hunkered below the hilltop in almost twenty acres. The whole property was more than two hundred, but a farmer grew crops and ran cattle on the rest of it around Alan’s fenced-off parcel.
The owners had built the house after visiting England, but were old now and had moved into town, leaving the house they’d intended to die in because the stairs couldn’t be climbed and driving had gotten too dangerous.
They were friends of Alan’s boss, Bob Harrison, and they’d wanted a renter like Alan, who wouldn’t ruin their furniture and would let them visit when their family brought them out to sit and watch the wind in the fields and talk about the past.
It was blowing out of the west that night and Alan stopped to adjust the tarp on his black Triumph Bonneville, then walked into the kitchen side of the big downstairs room. He laid his coat on the butcher-block island, deliberately inhaling the scent of wood smoke that lingered from years of hardwood fires in the two-story stone fireplace in the living room on his right.
He felt like himself downstairs. It was upstairs he felt like a giant. Climbing the wooden turret stairs too, that turned so tightly and were made so narrow his shoulders grazed the outside wall and his feet only fit sideways.
His bedroom, above the low-ceilinged kitchen, was small but fitted with bookshelves and storage, and full of light in the daytime from two skylights and a set of French doors that opened to a balcony big enough for one.
Half of one wall was open to the living room, above a white wooden fence-like partition, and it made the bedroom seem bigger and kept Alan from getting claustrophobic.
But that night, he stood by the balcony, after he’d thrown on old cords and a sweatshirt, and stared out at the silhouettes of cattle wandering the ridge.
He didn’t notice the way he usually would. He was riding a wave of foreboding – watching Tara Kruse again, watching Spence and his mother, while she tried to get her way.
He normally wouldn’t have thought about her much. It was probably because of the contrast. He’d dreamt about Jane, and gotten up at four, and the difference between her and Tara was so striking it startled him at Spencer’s and made him worry at it now.
He shook his head and sighed once, then squeezed down the stairs to dish up leftover chicken and green beans from two nights before.
He ate in the low-ceilinged dining room in the front of the downstairs, gazing across the two-story living room, wondering where Jane was now.
Probably still in Chicago. Doing the right thing.
It’d been two weeks away when he’d lost her. Church reserved. Dresses made. After his year in the hospital talking with Jane about everything they could think of. Seeing how much they interested each other, and how well they worked together. Watching her too, when she wasn’t looking, as she volunteered with the head wounds and the shell-shocked – the college-professor war-widow, making the best of the worst.
One phone call and it was over. Her husband was back from the dead. Afraid and ashamed to come home to her, knowing how damaged he was.
It was some consolation that she’d gone out of duty. She did what was right, which made him care about her more.
But finding someone like her seems less likely all the time. And when I compare her to Tara – who wants what she wants when she wants it, from what I saw – I worry about Spence.
I’m not being fair. I can’t be. I’ve only met Tara once. But the look on her face made my skin crawl when they were talking about dinner. It was like she knows she’s biding her time till she can take the gloves off once Spence is tied down.
I could be wrong. I hope I am. But what I read there between the lines leads to nothing but misery.
And Jo Grant? What about her?
I probably ought to call her. To tell her I’m going to let Jack move in. And need help finding him work.
Thursday, April 19, 1962
Jo had led Alan past the horse barns to what was left of the pioneer cabin her great-great-granddaddy had built when he worked for the Revolutionary colonel who’d built the big house.
The ruins sat at the south end of the property where the ridge fell away to low hills and meadows, where woods grew thick and flowering on the west above a wide rocky creek bed that cut through a steep ravine.
The sun was dropping toward the woods as they laid out the picnic dinner they’d worked on together. Toss had eaten his, and Emmy was with him, so Jo and Alan could sit there alone on the old stone mounting block and watch a red-tail drift overhead looking for prey in the pastures.
They ate tuna salad and pickled beets, and crunched Triscuits with cheddar cheese while they talked about things like places they’d been and movies they wanted to see.
Then Jo leaned back on her elbows and looked across at Alan. “Should I tell you what Tom said about Jack on the tape?”
“Sure. I need to know as much as I can, and he’s not doing much talking.”
“His parents came from Russia. His dad was a doctor there, and some kind of minor aristocrat. A Frenchman whose wife Jack’s dad had cured of something helped them escape after the Revolution.”
“I have a friend,” Alan said, as he handed Jo the beets, “whose father was smuggled out of Russia as a small boy in 1918, who’s never been able to mention it – living in Russia, or what the family went through – even to his own children.”
“That’s amazing.”
“I know. And the millions in the camps since? How traumatized were they? Even the families of the ones who survived.”
“Exactly. Anyway, Jack’s mom was a lot younger than his dad, and she was pregnant with Jack at the time. She was injured somehow when they were escaping so that one of her hands was badly damaged.
“She’d been a pianist, and she could never play again, at least not at the level she wanted to. But they got to Paris, where she had relatives who’d left Russia before them, and they stayed there for two or three years. And then when they were able to come to the States, Jack’s dad changed his name to Freeman because, he said, it was the very first time he knew what it was to be free.”
Alan said, “That’s interesting,” as Jo handed him the tuna.
“So he worked his rear end off and got himself through medical school here, for the second time, and went into practice in Michigan.”
“Did he seem to be bitter about that?”
“Not according to what Jack told Tom. Anyway, Tom said Jack was incredibly good at languages, and went to Yale law school, graduating when he was younger than normal. He also published a couple of books of poetry before the war, and did a lot of pro bono work in Chicago. He enlisted after Pearl Harbor, and was eventually recruited by the O.S.S.”
Alan smiled and shook his head. “And all Jack would admit to was that he’d gone to college.”
“That’s intriguing in itself.”
“Yes. So after what happened in France, he turned his back on everything he was educated to do. Or was expected to do. Maybe that’s closer.” Alan cut Jo a piece of cheddar, and handed her another Triscuit.
“But I don’t know why, or what it means.”
“Did Tom say any more about Jack’s parents?”
“Jack told Tom at some point that his mom had become obsessed with collecting antique musical instruments. That they live in a dilapidated mansion in a horrible part of downtown Detroit that she’s filled with historic instruments. His dad pays for it, maybe because he feels sorry for her. But it’s kept him working into his eighties. Inventing biocides too, and selling them to chemical companies, when he’d rather retire and work on other things. Tom also got the impression that Jack’s mom hardly noticed him when he was growing up.”
“Great.” Alan stood up and stretched his legs, dropping his heels off the mounting block’s step, before he rubbed his left thigh. “Families are unfathomable. And the people we fall in love with? That’s even more mysterious. As several playwrights and poets have mentioned. You know Spencer Franklin?”
“Sure. I like him a lot. You know why his dad’s called Booker?”
“Nope.”
“He was raised on a farm here near Paris, and when he was a kid, he always had a book in his hand. He actually read the whole Encyclopedia Britannica, and his folks started calling him Booker.”
“Good for him.”
“So what were you going to say about Spencer?”
“He’s gotten engaged to a woman who works at Blue Grass. I’ve only met her once, and I may not be being fair, but I didn’t trust her at all. I could tell his mom is worried about Tara too. But Spence, who is highly intelligent and very perceptive in general, seems not to notice what his mom and I both see. If I’m being fair.”
“Did you say Tara? T-a-r-a, as in the house in Gone With The Wind?”
“I guess so. Tara Kruse. She says it like it rhymes with Sarah. You look like you sat on a pin.”
“That’s because I knew a Tara in high school who tried to do deliberate harm to a really good guy. Revenge of the woman scorned kind of thing.”
“You’re making it sound extreme.”
“It was, believe me. She moved away before she graduated, and I never heard what happened to her. But it might be worth trying to find out if this is the same person. Because if it is, Spencer’s life won’t be worth living.”
“That bad?”
“Maybe even worse.” Jo smiled, before her dark blue eyes turned serious, and she pushed her thick brown pony tail back behind her shoulders. “Her last name was Wilson. I knew her aunt, starting when I was little. My dad bred and trained a horse for the aunt. Tara hated horses. She had to do barn work for her aunt once in awhile, and she did it all as badly as she could, and wasn’t too particular about keeping the horses safe.”
“What kind of people do that? Not take care of an animal that—”
“There’re plenty around. Racing’s got all kinds. Some of the things that happen would turn your stomach.”
“How are you doing, by the way? With Toss and—”
“Sam, and Maggie, and Emmy, and the other horses, as well as the seven barn cats?”
“Yes.” Alan laughed and ate the last of the cheese on his plate.
“I think it helped me to blurt it all out to you the other night.”
“Good. I know what that’s like.”
“I kept Sam. I couldn’t let him go, not when it got right down to it. He’s a great guy, and I’ll be here to ride him, because of Toss. I’ve given half-ownership of Maggie and her foal to Toss, kind of like an investment for both of us. And I’m keeping Emmy too. Toss can watch her part of the time when I have to go out.”
“So things have changed since the other night?”
Jo looked out at the fields, while her face turned fiery, then drank the rest of her tea. “I got it out and looked at it, and didn’t like it much.”
“Getting it out can be good.”
“Tom said something too on the tape that made me think. The reality is I can’t leave right now, and fighting it isn’t going to help. I’ll just have to go another time.”
Alan nodded, and ate the last of his beets and sour cream.
“I’ve always loved animals. It was just being a nurse for so long, with my mom and my horse and everything. I was being a rebellious little jerk when I snapped at you.”
“I’ve snapped at plenty of people. I’ve got a really nasty temper I’ve spent years trying to learn to control.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“One good thing that’s happened for me is that a friend of mine called and asked me to consult on the restoration of White Hall. It’s the old country house that belonged to Cassius Marcellus Clay. It’s been quietly falling apart, and working on the restoration will be very interesting, even if I don’t get paid.”
“That reminds me. Would you be willing to consult on Equine Pharmaceuticals’ lab? It needs to be reorganized and refurbished, and I need someone good to do it. I have to get authorization, but I thought I’d ask if you’re interested first. It’s not exactly architecture, although—”
“I’d like to. But you’ve never even seen my work.”
“Tom had pictures of quite a few of your designs.”
They were both quiet for a minute, repacking the dishes, listening to the night, before Alan asked, “What did Tara do to the kid in high school?”
“Well, first you have to understand that when Tara was twelve, she looked like she was sixteen. Big chest. Lots of curves. And she got way too interested in boys. When she was fourteen she started trying to… I don’t know what to call it… ensnare a really good guy who was two years older. He was a serious boy who studied a lot, trying to get into an excellent college. Cliff did sports too. He wasn’t a bore or anything, but he was young and very naive. He was flattered, and dazzled maybe. Not having dated much before.
“Anyway, his family was religious. Not fanatical but serious, and they were appalled by Tara’s attentions. Phoning all the time, stopping by the house, appearing late at night outside his window. His family had more money than she did, and maybe she was interested in that. Her mom was divorced and worked hard as a bookkeeper, but they didn’t have a lot, and she didn’t know what to do with Tara.
“Cliff’s family called Tara’s mom and suggested she keep her at more of a distance, and Tara went wild. She denied being interested in him, said she had all kinds of boys who wanted to date her, and she began sending nasty things through the mail. I think even a dead rat. She told everybody he was a sissy, with fictional and vicious details, plus a mama’s boy and a snob. She ended up throwing a rock through a window, though they couldn’t prove it was her. There were other things, but that’s the gist.”
“Great.”
“I know. She was smart. She could be incredibly charming when she wanted to be. She got a lot of male teachers to think she was terribly misunderstood, but you could see something was wrong with her. There was meanness there and extreme self-obsession. And women saw it easier than men.”
“Is that all firsthand knowledge?”
“Some. I saw some letters and was there when phone calls came in too. She was five years younger, so I wasn’t there to see it all. But that’s what happened. I know for a fact from more than one source. When she was sixteen she went off with some guy. But I don’t know what she’s been up to since.”
“And we don’t know that this Tara is the same one.”
“It might be worth finding out, though. If she’s the same person, I’m going to have to tell Spence. I couldn’t sleep at night if I didn’t.”
“Friendships can get ruined by stepping in like that.”
“I know. But what else could I do and live with myself too?”
Friday, April 20, 1962
Jo and Toss were heading toward the barns, Jo walking, with Emmy on a leash, Toss grumbling loudly that he didn’t need to be pushed in a chair, that he ought to be using his crutches.
“Toss, knock it off. Please. You know you can’t put weight on your legs. They’ve told you that over and over.” Jo said it with a smile in her voice and rolled her eyes for her own amusement, since Toss couldn’t see her. “If you want to get out of the house, you’re stuck with me for a… oh, no!”
Jo was staring at Buddy, a hundred yards up ahead, leading Maude – the oldest, wiliest, most belligerent mare, they’d been stuck with for years, who spent every moment of her miserable life looking for a chance to take advantage – make one of her typical break-outs, knocking against Buddy, barging through the paddock gate Buddy had just opened.
She yanked her lead rope out of his hands, charged across the drive, then ran along the yearling paddock, bucking and kicking by the fencerow, stirring up the colts who were watching – till she stopped suddenly to crop tall grass growing outside their water trough.
Buddy shut the gate before he went after her, then changed his mind, and turned around, and rushed off to the barn to grab a scoop of grain.
Jo locked the wheels on Toss’ chair and handed him Emmy’s leash, then started quietly toward Maude, as Buddy came out of the first broodmare barn, slowing his pace as he walked toward Maude too, who had one eye on Jo on her right, fifty yards away, the other on Buddy on her left, twenty yards and closing.
That was when the gate got nudged open – the gate Buddy hadn’t bolted properly – and Magic Mile, a generally well-behaved, very nice young filly, shot out of her paddock and ran full tilt to her barn. She was moving too fast to make it unscathed through the doorway, with the sliding door half closed, and she scraped her shoulder on its metal edge as she headed toward her stall.
“Buddy,” Jo said just loud enough to be heard, “grab Magic. Leave the grain for me to bribe Maude.”
Ten minutes later, Maude was in her stall looking pleased with herself, while Toss lectured Buddy, and Magic quivered in the aisle-way as Jo cleaned her cut. It was more of a tear than a deep gash, but stitching would help minimize the scar and speed up the healing. And Jo had already called the vet to come stitch her up.
“You can’t not latch the gate, boy. You know that.”
“I do. I’m sorry, Mr. Toss. I thought I’d gotten it fastened.” Buddy was pouring scoops of grain into the waist-high feed tubs in the left front corner of every stall, his thin back bowed as he worked, his blond hair hanging on his forehead, his long bony face looking dignified, but worried too when he glanced at Toss.
“Sorry ain’t good enough in this business. That filly belongs to Mr. Mercer Tate, and now I gotta call him and tell him what’s happened, and that don’t help our reputation none.”
“I feel real bad, Mr. Toss. I’ll figure out some way to pay the vet. I can’t do it quick, but—”
“That’s a real good idea. I’ll phone Mercer and see what he says while you bring in the others.”
Jo listened to Toss talk to Mercer in the kitchen, telling him Buddy hadn’t had much bringing-up, with his father who he was and all, and he was trying to train him up while he had the chance.
“He’s a good boy. He’ll end up fine, but he needs a few lessons along the line.” Toss didn’t say anything for awhile, and then Jo heard him say, “That’s a fine idea, Merce, a real fine idea. We’ll bring him along tomorrow and let you have a little talk. He could learn a lot in your barn. He’s bound and determined to be a trainer, and you folks can teach him a whole lot more than me, and introduce him around. He’s got a nice little mare too he got instead of wages, and if he could breed her to a decent stallion he might could get him a start… Thanks. You too. See ya tomorrow. The vet just drove in.”
Saturday, April 21, 1962
Tomorrow ended up drizzly and cold, but the inside of Toss’s pickup seemed even colder than the outside, as Jo drove Toss and Buddy over to Mercer Tate’s. She was dropping Buddy, then taking Toss to the doctor’s, which was always an adventure.
Buddy was vibrating in the seat between her and Toss, licking his lips and swallowing a lot while Toss made a point of saying nothing, making Buddy feel worse.
It was one of Jo’s favorite drives, regardless – north toward Midway, then west past Airie Stud, north again toward Spring Station. She watched the world of stone walls and lazing horses, bordered by huge old trees – tall and sweeping and green now and flowering – that made the farms look primeval and designed, as though God and farmers in the nineteenth century had consulted together daily.
Mercer’s land was a piece of that rolling stone-walled peacefulness, part of it running cattle – a breeding herd, established by his great-granddaddy – part of it grazed by stallions and mares, bred not to be raced by Merce himself, but to sell to folks who would.
The driveway to the house was lined with giant oaks, and as they drove in, Toss turned a sharp eye on Buddy. “You gotta understand something about Mr. Tate. He ain’t nothin’ like me. His great-granddaddy come from England a hundred-and-twenty years ago and started up a real fine breeding farm. Folks have come in from everywhere since, up North and Europe too, to buy breeding stock from the Tates.
“Mercer, he’s traveled all over, and he’s real educated. His granddaddy was ambassador to some country somewhere. Something small, I don’t remember where, but him and me, we’re friends. Horses brought us together. The way we see ’em and care for ’em. It’s like that around here. Horses put folks at the same dinner table who wouldn’t never see each other in the normal course of events.
“So you just be yourself and treat him real fair. ’Nother thing, too. He lost his two sons in the Pacific, so don’t you go and talk about the war or ask about his kids.”
“I won’t.”
Toss nodded, half-way down the drive – and that was when the sun came out, flooding the red brick Greek Revival house with a shaft of clear yellow light – right as the front door opened and Mercer Tate walked out.
“I’ll take you to see the stallions on the way over to the broodmare barns, while we have a quiet word.” Mercer Tate was a small man, trim and wiry and fit-looking, but he moved as though most of him hurt, as though age and arthritis were enemies he knew well but had decided to overlook.
“My most experienced hands work with the stallions and oversee the breeding. There’re too many ways they can get hurt, and hurt the mares too. ’Course, you and I know horses, don’t we? How sensitive and how worried they can be, and how easily they can get ruined.”
“Yes sir. I’m real sorry. I know it was my fault I didn’t get the latch locked good, and I want to make it right. I know there’ll be a scar, but I’m—”
Mercer had held his hand up and Buddy closed his mouth. “Scars aren’t good, but the training’s more important. We don’t want Magic to learn to take advantage. We don’t know now what her future will be. She might be bought and trained for the track. She might be bought as a broodmare. Either way, handling’s important, and why I use Toss Watkins for the extras I don’t have hands for. Magic’s going to need manners, and you’ve got to do your part.”
“Yes sir. I know. I promise I’ll do better, and I’ll pay for the vet. I could see my way to two dollars a week for as long as it takes.”
“I’ve got a proposal to make, and you see what you think. I’ll let you work here six hours a week as a groom with my broodmares. I’ve got good help, and they can teach you a lot that you might want to learn. Toss says you’d like to be a trainer, and if you keep your eyes and ears open here, you’ll meet a good number of trainers and buyers, and get to see how things are done. I figure you owe me thirty hours, at the going rate of a dollar an hour, if that seems right to you.”
“Yes sir. That sounds real good to me. If I can work the hours out with Mr. Toss. I gotta give him first say.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
One of the grooms who worked in the stallion barns was scattering fresh straw in a stall when they walked in. Mercer Tate introduced Buddy to Frankie D’Amato, the newest hand with the stallions. Half of them were out in their paddocks, but Mercer introduced Buddy to the others. Frankie was short and dark and seemed friendly, and when they were walking out the door he asked Mr. Tate if he could ask him a question.
“Certainly.”
“Well, I heard that your granddaddy was the first real famous breeder around here, and that the train line through Midway was put in so rich folks from up in the North could come down and buy his stock. That can’t be true, can it? A railroad line and all?”
“That’s what they say. Whether it’s true I don’t know.”
“My goodness, that’s somethin’, ain’t it? And you’ve kept the bloodlines going just the same. That’s real impressive.”
Mercer Tate glanced at Frankie, then walked on out of the barn. Buddy looked back and saw Frankie watching, chewing a toothpick and grinning.
Booker Franklin looked down at his wife as they walked along Spring Station Road between two rows of old trees bordered by dry stone walls.
It was one of their favorite walks, though there weren’t many Saturdays when they could enjoy it, with their work at Blue Grass Horse Vans being what it was. But after he’d mowed the lawn, and she’d paid the bills, and they’d hacked their horses at Spencer’s, they’d decided to get outside and walk. So they’d headed west from Midway, where their house sat back from the main street, to walk beside the fine old farms that were still kept up and working.
Alice’s hair was wrapped on the back of her head, and she was moving fast the way she liked to, but Booker thought her mouth looked tense, and her eyes seemed preoccupied behind her sunglasses, and her shoulders were jammed up tight. “What’s going on, Allie?”
“Hmmm?”
“You’ve been off somewhere else thinking hard all day, so I figure there must be a reason.”
“Well. First of all, I have to have a hysterectomy.”
“What!”
“They’ve scheduled it for next week. Dr. Winters doesn’t seem alarmed, but he will want to do a biopsy.”
“He thinks it’s cancer?”
“No. Not really. Pre-cancerous, possibly, but I should be fine once it’s out.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Booker was tall and lanky, his face tanned and deeply lined, his jaw broad, his nose bony, his mouth large and friendly, his eyes blue like Spencer’s, but worried then, when he stopped in the road and pulled Alice against him.
“I only found out yesterday, and you got home so late, we both needed to sleep.”
“I’m sorry, honey.” His chin was on the top of her head when a pick-up truck flew by.
“I’m not really worried. Winters must do hundreds a year.”
“I’ll postpone the trip to Europe. Spence and I can go in July or August, when we see how you are.”
“You don’t leave for a month. You’ve had it planned since Christmas. And you know you need to evaluate the feasibility of—”
“Exporting to England and France. Yes, I know, but even so—”
“I’ll be fine by then. They say I can’t drive for six weeks, but Peggy can drive me if I need her to, and she can bring me correspondence from the office. I’ve been looking forward to staying home and painting the two weeks you’re gone. And Martha says she’ll come up from Charleston in time for the surgery.”
“Good. That’s what daughters are for.”
“They get stuck with caring for family anyway, whether they want to or not.”
They both smiled, before Booker said, “True.”
“But she can’t stay for too long. She’s in the midst of mounting an exhibit of Catesby’s and Audubon’s work.”
“Why don’t we wait and see how you are after surgery? If you’re not well, we won’t go to Europe.”
Alice nodded, and slipped her hand in his. “I agree. But you shouldn’t cancel now.”
“There’s something else that’s—”
“Michael Westlake’s not doing well. He’s been coming to work late and leaving early, and drinking again at lunch. I talked to him for a long time Thursday and made it very clear that if that doesn’t stop we’ll have to let him go. That we have to have standards that apply to everybody.”
They were walking again, from sun to shade and back, as strips of cloud blew by, when Booker said, “He’s a very competent mechanical engineer, but we can’t let that go on. It’s not good for him and it’s not fair to the rest. Did you talk to him about A.A.?”
“He didn’t take it terribly well. He says he doesn’t have a problem.”
“I would’ve been glad to talk to him myself. I hate for you to have to do that.”
“I appreciate that. I do. But men will sometimes admit to having problems easier with women. Some men. Sometimes. As I suspect you know.”
Charles “Booker” Franklin laughed, before he said, “True.”
“We left it that if he’s late without calling in with a very good excuse, or leaves work early, or shows up with liquor on his breath, or acts unpredictable the way he does when he’s drinking, it will have to be his last day.”
“That’s what I would’ve done.”
They walked on in silence, until Alice looked over at Booker and saw that he was smiling. “What are you thinking about? Not poor Michael.”
“Do you ever wish we hadn’t started the business? Life before was less complicated.”
“No. And you don’t either. It’s the family part that’s the hardest.”
Booker said, “That’s putting it mildly. But there are great opportunities too.”
“Richard wants to be promoted.”
Booker stopped walking and stared at Alice. “And his justification for this is what?”
“Time in his present position.”
“Lily’s behind it. Don’t you think?”
“Yes, but Richard wants it too.”
“He’s thirty-nine years old, and he’s a kid! He cares more about model trains than he’s ever cared about the business. He has no curiosity or enthusiasm for it, and he’s a mediocre performer.”
“Do you want to talk to him, or have me do it?”
“Typical. That he’d talk to you instead of me.”
“Because I’m head of Personnel, he said.”
“And he’s half-afraid of me. Nuts. There’s no good solution is there? No way to tell him what he needs to hear, that spares his feelings too?”
“Nope.”
“Let’s talk about it later. If I had it to do it all over again, I would’ve made him work somewhere else before I considered hiring him.”
“And now there’s Spencer marrying Tara.”
“How can he have been such a good judge of character all these years, and be so perceptive in general, and fall for her?”
“Giselle could be part of the appeal. She’s a cute kid with a lot of personality, and I think he wants to give her a decent dad.”
“Maybe we’re wrong, Allie. Maybe Spence sees something that’s there that we don’t.”
“I hope so.”
“But you doubt it.”
They walked on without saying much for awhile – watching the horses in one paddock after another, listening too to an army of birds. Until Booker asked Alice what else was on her mind, because he could see there was something.
She slowed down without quite stopping, and said, “You know me too well, don’t you?” as she pulled a letter from her faded khakis and handed it to Booker.
If you thought the last letter was, in fact, the last, you were wrong in that, as in much else. You need to hear once again that I will not forget what your family has done to mine.
Have you always hated us? Did you plan it all along? When you acted as though you cared for me all those years ago was that a lie too? It must have been for you to have done what you’ve orchestrated since.
You stole my art. That’s indisputable. The idea I revealed so naively – the painting I should have painted, you painted instead, and won the award that should have been mine. Now, as I look back upon that experience, I see it ruined the career I should have had.
I couldn’t paint from that time on, not with the freedom I’d had before.
Was your father an enemy all along too? I thought he loved my dad. I thought they’d been each other’s best friends as long as they could remember, and that that led to their medical practice lasting forty years.
He couldn’t have cared and killed my daughter. And that I won’t forgive, not as long as I live. No one would. Not in their right minds, as I am now for the first time in years.
I have recently made decisions that have changed the course of my life. More will have to be made, though the precise nature and extent of their influence is unclear at this time.
One thing I can promise is you haven’t heard the last of me. I won’t let this rest, Allie. No one could if they understood what you two have done.
T.
Booker handed the letter back, then stood and stared at Alice. “What’s wrong with Tyler? It sounds like he’s lost his mind.”
“Something snapped when his daughter died. And I don’t know what to do.”
“Do you think he could do something crazy? Come here and try to hurt you?”
“No. No. I can’t imagine that. But I wish I could think of someway to help.”
“Pray.”
“I know.”
“I mean, what else can we do?”