by Ann Warner
When Kathy walked into the kitchen five minutes later, he waited to see her reaction to the fact Mrs. C had changed her mind about the pie and was insisting he stay for dinner instead. Kathy’s lips twitched, as if she were suppressing a smile. He considered that a good sign.
Although he doubted he’d be able to eat, the warm smells of the food and the comfortable chatter between the Costellos, as a heaped platter of fried chicken and bowls of mashed potatoes, gravy, and peas were passed around, soothed him. He filled his plate and ate with more appetite than he’d had in a long time.
“How was your day, dear?” Mrs. Costello asked Kathy.
“Really good. Jade finished another illustration for Bobby and Brad.”
“Calico is publishing it?” Alan asked.
Kathy nodded.
He met her gaze. “It should be published. Thank you for sharing it with me.” It helped me heal. He couldn’t tell her that, not yet, but maybe someday soon.
Delight transformed her face, her skin lucent with it, her eyes sparkling brooks.
After a moment, she looked away, but the memory of that look stayed with him, warming him even more than the food.
When they finished eating, Kathy shooed Mrs. Costello out of the kitchen and turned to him. “I hope you don’t mind doing dishes.”
“Seems only fair.” They needed to talk and doing it while they washed dishes—he could handle that.
“I better dry since I know where everything goes. Mrs. C hates it when things are put away in the wrong place.”
He filled the sink with hot water and added soap as Kathy cleaned off the dishes and set them on the counter next to him. As they worked, he thought about what he needed to say.
Keeping his gaze focused on the sink and its contents, he finally managed to begin. “Your note. You didn’t need to apologize, but I do. I’m sorry for the way I treated you. I was hoping that. . . maybe we can be friends again.” That wasn’t what he really wanted, but it was all he was capable of asking for at the moment.
Cradling plates with one arm, Kathy reached out and touched him. “I’d like that.”
He looked down at her hand, resting lightly on his arm, feeling a mixture of fear and hope, knowing with perfect clarity he was not turning back this time. He couldn’t bear to lose her again.
He rubbed a hand over his forehead, forgetting it was soapy. Kathy reached out with her towel to wipe the soapsuds away.
“This is harder than it looks.”
“Washing dishes? Or talking?”
He shook his head and gave her a rueful smile. “Talking.”
He turned back to the sink, determined to say it all. Bowls and silverware followed the plates into the drainer as he struggled to find the words. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He stretched his shoulders, trying to ease the tension, upset he was making such a hash of it. “But I did. And I’m sorry.” He handed Kathy the last batch of silverware and let the water out of the sink.
“I treated you badly as well.”
“No. No, you didn’t.” His voice firmed, and he managed to meet her gaze. He raised a hand to stop her from saying more. “Please, I need to know you forgive me.”
“Of course, I do.”
He nodded, relieved. “I’m not doing very well, am I?”
“You’re doing just fine. Although there is the small matter of the pots and pans.”
He gazed over at the stove ,then at Kathy, who smiled at him.
He refilled the sink while Kathy carried over the saucepans and skillet. After he finished washing them, he said, “Can I take you to dinner tomorrow?”
“I’d like that.”
“I’ll pick you up...seven? The Indian restaurant? Or do you prefer something else?” He wished they could simply laugh together at the memory he was trying to invoke, but it was still too soon.
“Indian’s fine.” Her tone was solemn, but her mouth curved in a smile.
“Can we. . . ” He stopped and took a deep breath. So many emotions jumbled together. Elation. Exhaustion. Fear. But stronger than fear were love and a growing desire. He wanted to do it right this time. Tell her about Meg. Begin to build something new with her.
“What?” She spoke gently.
“Can we take it slow?”
“As long as you promise not to disappear again.”
“I won’t.”
“Then, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Kathy spoke with the firmness of a promise.
~ ~ ~
“What a nice young man,” Mrs. C said, when Kathy came back into the living room after showing Alan out. “And such lovely flowers he sent you.”
“Flowers?”
“You didn’t notice, dear? I put them in your room.”
Kathy rushed upstairs, her heart beating with gladness, relief flooding through her. Maybe Alan had trouble saying the words, but here was proof he wanted to say them.
The flowers, a mix of roses and orchids in a small vase was sitting by the bed. She fumbled open the card.
It was never my intention to seduce you. My intention was to make love to you. C
She drew in a deep, shaky breath, letting it sink in—that the flowers weren’t from Alan and what Charles was saying in his note. She didn’t want to hurt him, but it wasn’t Charles she wanted making love to her.
Alan. She’d almost given up hope. Nearly a week since she sent the note and the story. With the passing of each day, it had felt less and less likely he would respond. So when she’d looked up tonight and seen him, such immense relief had washed through her. He’d come. Thank God.
Then everything turned bizarre. Mrs. C inviting him for dinner. Sitting across from Alan with all the words they needed to say to each other silenced by the presence of the Costellos. Until something odd happened. Peace gradually easing the tightness in her shoulders, forehead, and arms.
Alan seemed to feel it as well. He looked tranquil. His eyes for the moment free of shadows, and there was an ease to the way he moved, sat, spoke, that was different than before. Like a lake smoothed to mirror stillness after being ruffled by a breeze.
It was one of the hardest things she’d ever done, walking him to the door and staying behind as he drove away. She’d wanted to run after him and insist he take her with him. But he hadn’t yet been able to tell her about Meg, and she needed to give him the chance to pick the time and place for that.
Still, his abrupt departure tempered her joy with uneasiness. He had not made his intentions clear. What if he were offering only what he had offered before?
She already knew that wouldn’t be enough.
The only way to find out was to risk being hurt even more than she already had been. A gamble she knew without any debate she would willingly take.
~ ~ ~
When Alan arrived the next evening, Mrs. Costello let him in, and he watched as Kathy came down the stairs, wearing an old-fashioned burgundy-colored dress and looking so beautiful his heart felt like an inflating balloon.
Seated across from her in the restaurant, he had to clear his throat before he could speak. “You look wonderful. Your dress. I like it. It’s old, isn’t it?”
“The term is vintage.” She smiled at him. “Amanda insisted I buy it.”
“Amanda, huh. How’s she doing these days?”
Kathy shook her head, looking solemn. “Locked in a trunk.”
He gave her a questioning look.
“The story. . . it stopped working after Delia got sick.”
Yeah. Lots of things had. “At least you ended up with a nice dress. Possibly worn by one of the silver baron’s wives.”
“More likely, one of their mistresses.”
He examined the dress. “The design. It’s not exactly right.”
“For a mistress, or a wife?” Her eyes danced with mischief.
“For the eighteen nineties.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I’m working on a novel set in that time. I’ve looked at a lot of pictures.”
<
br /> Slowly Kathy began to smile, a wide, wonderful smile. “So, we’re writing something other than memos are we, Professor Francini?”
“I never was very good at memos, to tell you the truth.” He thought of all the pages of manuscript scattered across both his table and desk at home with that note at the end from Meg.
“What is it?” Kathy spoke softly, her hand on his arm.
He met her gaze, forcing his thoughts back to the present and trying to think how to begin. So many things he needed to tell her, all of them difficult, but he needed to make a start. “I was denied tenure.”
Kathy frowned. “I don’t understand.”
He shrugged. “Hilstrom said no tenure unless I was writing fiction.”
“But you just said you are.”
“Too late.”
She took his hand between hers. “I’m sorry. What are you going to do?”
“I have until next year to find something else.” He liked her taking the initiative to touch him. Liked the feeling of connection it gave him.
“I happen to have inside information that you’re a wonderful teacher.”
He raised his brows in question.
“Remember how I almost had a riot on my hands when the students discovered you weren’t teaching the seminar last spring?”
“Doesn’t count.”
“And it’s too bad it doesn’t. Whoever hires you is going to be really glad DSU didn’t keep you.”
“Thanks. That means a lot.” He was sorry when she let go of his hand in order to pick up her menu, but her words continued to soothe the rough wound Hilstrom had inflicted with her blinkered decision.
While they waited for the food to arrive, Kathy filled him in on the sign language classes she was taking with the Garibaldis. “Delia is learning so quickly, it’s amazing.”
He agreed Delia was amazing. In fact, the little girl had shown herself to be tougher and more resilient than he was.
“I need to sign up for a class too.”
Kathy nodded, then she moved her hands and lips, slowly and emphatically, but without sound.
“What’s that?” he said.
Kathy’s eyes gleamed with laughter. “That was either, ‘Delia will be pleased’, or ‘Delia likes to eat porridge.’”
It surprised a laugh from him.
“Not that I’m finding it difficult, you understand,” she hastened to add.
Later, when he walked her onto the Costellos’ porch, she pulled out her key and inserted it in the lock, but she didn’t open the door. Instead, she turned to him and raised her eyes to his. “I’m glad you came back. I missed you.”
He pulled her into his arms, and she leaned against him, solid and warm. Real. He rubbed his cheek against her hair. “I want to kiss you, but I don’t dare.”
“Because of what happened last time?” Her voice sounded choked.
“Partly that, I suppose. It wasn’t what I meant, though.” He thought of the barriers still between them. Meg. And the knowledge Charles loved Kathy.
It was so difficult to reach for happiness when it meant hurting a friend. “There’s something I need. . . ”
No, he couldn’t manage it. Not yet. He had to do it soon, though. “I-I have to go out to the ranch tomorrow to cover while the folks are away for a few days. I wonder if you. . . if you’d come out Saturday.”
“I’d like that.”
“Come early.” He stepped back from her, his hands on her shoulders. “I’ll show you how to muck a stall.”
“And I’m interested in that because?”
The sudden lightness between them was a huge relief. He drew in a breath and smiled at her. “You have a skill like that, you’ll never starve.”
“Maybe starving would be preferable. But you’re on. I’ll be there.”
“I’ll feed you breakfast.” He closed his eyes briefly and dropped his hands to his sides. “I’ll see you then.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Kathy watched Charles walk toward her. The courts had recessed for lunch, and the restaurant was filling up quickly.
He sat down across from her. His eyes, blue-gray behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses she’d never seen him wear before, looked tired. She’d always thought his eyes were too blue to be real, but these eyes were very real indeed, as was the man.
“Thank you for coming,” she said. “And thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful.”
“Just wanted to set the record straight.”
She shifted uncomfortably, trying to meet his gaze. “The man I told you about. He came to see me.”
“Alan Francini.” His voice was flat. “I know. He called. “
“You’re friends?”
“The best.”
It was a shock but not really a surprise given the way Charles had acted that night in his apartment. “He hasn’t been able to tell me about Meg.”
Charles looked surprised. “How do you know then?”
“Elaine told me. Did you know her? Meg.”
He looked away, his throat working. “She was his whole world. When he lost her. . . ” His voice sounded raspy.
“Do you know how she died?” Kathy said the words quickly, knowing if she thought about it she wouldn’t be able to say them at all. But this could be her best, maybe her only chance to understand Alan.
Charles pinched the bridge of his nose, displacing the glasses. “You know you’re taking a huge chance.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Being second-best.”
Kathy felt like the breath had been knocked out of her. If Charles were angry or speaking vindictively, she could have shrugged it off. But he wasn’t. He sounded more sad than anything.
Besides, it was what she herself feared most. That for Alan she would be an unequal substitute for the woman he’d lost.
“That’s one thing I can give you he can’t,” Charles continued. “A free heart.”
“But I can’t give you one in return. I’m sorry. I wish I could.”
‘“If wishes were horses. . . ’” He smiled a crooked smile, then reached out and took her hand in his. “I don’t believe I could eat to save my life. But thank you. For meeting with me, for not leaving me hanging.”
“You’re a good man, Charles. Any girl in her right mind would find it so easy to love you.”
“Just my luck you aren’t in your right mind.” He rubbed his thumb gently across the palm of her hand.
“You and Alan.” She stopped, unable to say more.
Charles closed his eyes briefly, then opened them and gave her a rueful smile. “Might take a while, but we’ll be fine.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her palm. “Just be happy.” Then he pushed his chair back and stood up.
Her eyes filled with tears. She wasn’t in love with Charles, but she cared for him, and she wished with all her heart she could alleviate his distress—but what would bring him comfort was the one thing she couldn’t give.
He wended his way around tables to reach the entrance, and then he was gone.
It wasn’t until he’d left that she realized. He hadn’t answered her question about how Meg died.
~ ~ ~
Saturday morning, Kathy was up at six. Mrs. C already had coffee made, and she insisted Kathy drink a cup and eat a cinnamon roll. “To tide you over, dear.”
Kathy drank half a cup and ate a roll, then she pulled on her jacket.
“Here you are.” Mrs. C handed her a wrapped package. “Some rolls for that nice young man.”
Kathy took the rolls and kissed Mrs. C’s cheek before hurrying out to her car.
Driving to the ranch, she felt the way she had driving to Denver when she first moved there—that at the end of the trip, for better or worse, her life would change forever.
She let her thoughts drift, not wanting to lean on this new future too hard. It all seemed so unbearably fragile and tentative.
When she arrived at the ranch, she parked in her usual spot, climbed out,
and eased the car door closed. She stood for a moment, looking at the barn, the pastures, and the house on the hill, breathing in peace along with fresh air.
Then, ready at last to face whatever came next, she walked to the barn and slipped inside. The warm smells of hay and horse with its slight tang of ammonia wrapped around her. Cormac came up to her, tail wagging. And there was Alan, pitching hay. She watched him, feeling a tremulous mix of hope, joy, and fear.
She spoke softly. “Good morning.”
He turned abruptly, his gaze shifting from her to Cormac. “Some watchdog, you are.” He sounded stern, but Cormac simply gave him a doggy grin and wagged his tail. Then Alan smiled at her, “I’m almost done mucking out.”
“I hoped you would be.”
“Chicken.”
She smiled as she went down the line, patting heads, rubbing ears and noses, getting reacquainted with Siesta, Sonoro, Arriba and the rest. When Alan finished, they walked up to the house.
They decided on omelets for breakfast. Kathy sliced onions and mushrooms and sautéed them while Alan stirred the eggs and put the cinnamon rolls in the oven to warm up. They worked comfortably, as if they’d been cooking together in this kitchen for years.
When their plates were ready, they took them to the small table by a window that overlooked the valley.
There was contentment in the warm food and their being together, but underneath tension trembled between them.
“I thought we might go for a ride,” he said, when they finished eating.
Kathy had already figured out the place Alan would be most comfortable talking about Meg would be on the back of a horse, and she’d dressed for it.
~ ~ ~
Alan had already passed on several opportunities to tell Kathy about Meg. All it required was a few simple words—You see, I was married. Then maybe he could say the other words. She died.
He cleared his throat in preparation, but the words clotted and refused to come out. The tension in him squeezed at Sonoro, who moved abruptly into a paso corto leaving Kathy and Siesta to follow.