"I've changed my mind," Madeleine said, then winced, remembering where changing her mind last time had got her.
"Well, I don't think it's New York you should be hating," Alfie said. She was considering the menu, trying to decide what to have for brunch, and she glanced at Madeleine only briefly. The eggs Benedict looked better. "I think it's wherever you spent your summer vacation. I don't like to be depressing, Mad, but frankly you look like hell."
"Thank you very much."
"Well, you do." Alfie considered her dispassionately over the top of the menu. "You're pale and wan and you look half-dead. What did he do to you, make you ride bulls?"
Madeleine shook her head.
Alfie sighed. "You look like you did. You look like they trampled you."
"I'll recover," Madeleine said. "I'll just have toast," she said to the waitress.
Alfie looked at her, disgusted. "Bring her some fresh fruit, too. And a pot of coffee. You have to eat, Madeleine, if you're going to recover."
"Fine," Madeleine said wearily. She knew she would, but it was going to be hard.
She'd counted on walking off the plane and feeling the rush of enthusiasm she usually felt when she landed in New York. Instead she felt empty. She felt dead.
She'd counted on a good night's sleep refreshing her, a brisk walk in Central Park reviving her, a brunch with Alfie this morning making her feel bright and focused again. They did not.
"So your mother was wrong, I gather," Alfie said. "Since I see you didn't bring Roy Rogers home."
"Of course my mother was wrong," Madeleine said sharply. "That's why I went, didn't I? To prove it?"
Alfie shrugged. "I guess."
That was why she went; Madeleine had to keep reminding herself of that.
She poked at the cantaloupe the waitress set in front of her. "Do you think that people with advanced degrees are perhaps more stupid about life than the average person?" she asked.
"It's possible," Alfie said cheerfully. "They have a tendency to overanalyze, to make things too abstract. Simple is sometimes better."
"I was thinking that," Madeleine said. She stabbed another piece of cantaloupe thoughtfully.
"Sometimes," Alfie went on through a mouthful of Hollandaise, "I think people who are extremely well educated think they can control things they can't. Sometimes they need to learn to leave well enough alone."
* * *
If she'd left well enough alone she wouldn't be hurting like this. She wouldn't know about rodeos and roundups, about campers and cattle, about wide open spaces and cool desert mornings and prairies and mountains caressed by a big, big sky.
She wouldn't have fallen in love with Chan Richardson.
She wouldn't be walking around New York now, feeling like hell.
She might even be up for this meeting with Jordan Venable she was about to walk into, instead of wondering what she was going to say. She didn't suppose it mattered much. It was all pro forma at this point. Just a progress report, to let him know what she'd accomplished, to hear his view on what she'd already written.
Maybe, she thought a little desperately, something he would say would jar her loose from this fit of the dismals and set her back on the right track.
She lifted her chin as she walked up the steps to the building near Washington Square where he had his office. She squared her shoulders when she knocked on his door.
"Come in."
Venable was sitting behind his desk, leaning back in his antique oak, swivel office chair, puffing on his pipe. His feet were on his desk, crossed at the ankles. He was wearing rose-and-gray argyle socks. He smiled when Madeleine came in. "Welcome back, traveler. Have a seat."
"Thank you." She sat down on the straight-back chair opposite him. He folded his hands behind his head and waited as she settled. Then he said, "What do you mean by free will?"
Madeleine, who had been comparing his gentle smile and patrician features to her memory of Chan's lean, hard-edged face, blinked and stared. "What?"
"I said, what do you mean by free will? I've read your chapters, and while I think you have all the philosophical speculation down pat, I don't see the practical application anywhere."
"I—" she stopped, floored. "But I thought the speculation, the exploration of the differences in attitude – I thought that's what you wanted, what we talked about."
He nodded slowly. "Yes. But just for the sake of the world at large, those who live but don't necessarily read philosophy—" he smiled "—give me a concrete example of free will."
"A concrete example?" She shook her head, confused.
"I'm just playing devil's advocate, Miss Decker. I think you've got the abstract notion spot on. I want to know where you'd go with it from there."
"But isn't that outside the scope of philosophy?"
Venable shrugged. "Maybe. Should it be?"
Madeleine opened her mouth to say yes. Then she remembered her brunch with Alfie just two hours before. She remembered Alfie talking about overanalyzing, about making things too abstract. "Maybe not," she said slowly.
"So then, for the sake of discussion. To apply this philosophy you've been writing about, give me an example, from your own life, if you wish, of free will. Where have you been free to make a choice, not constrained by fate or the will of others?"
The will of others?
"There's this cowboy," she said, "that my mother wanted me to marry."
Venable's brows looked like the Washington Square arch. "A cowboy your mother wants you to marry? But I thought your mother was Dr. Decker, the anthropologist."
"She is," Madeleine said. "But she's still a mother." And then she told him about Julia and Antonia, about their genetics and their anthropological studies. She told him about Chan, about the camper, about the rodeos, about the summer. Sometimes when she talked her throat tightened, and she felt she could hardly speak past the lump there. Sometimes her eyes got damp and her nose threatened to run, and she wondered if she was allergic to Venable's pipe smoke. She dabbed at them and went on.
"So you see," she said almost desperately, "that's an example of free will. I'm choosing not to marry him, not to even try to marry him, even though my mother wants me to."
Venable puffed for a moment, then let the smoke swirl curl into the room. "Possibly," he allowed.
Madeleine frowned. "What do you mean, possibly. It's quite clear. I'm not letting her dictate my life. I'm exercising my own free will."
There was a long silence. Then Venable smiled a gentle smile. "Are you, Miss Decker?" he said quietly. "I would have thought that particular question didn't have anything to do with your mother."
* * *
"Hi."
"Chan! How are you? How's everything? Are you in Cheyenne?" Julia's voice was cheerful, optimistic. All must be right in her world. Lucky her.
"Yeah, I'm in Cheyenne."
"Did you make the finals today?"
"Barely. But barely counts and I got a good chance. Got me a good bull. Red River."
"He is good," Julia agreed. "But isn't he the one who kicked you unconscious in … in New York?"
"He's the one," Chan said. He was trying not to think about that. He was trying to get focused, to see himself ride, not let last year's bad experience do him in.
"Well, he'll be a challenge, then, won't he?" Julia said with all the optimism she could muster. "Good luck."
"Thanks. I'll need it."
"You'll do fine, darling. I know you will." There was a pause, then she asked, "How's … Madeleine?"
"Fine, I suppose."
"You … suppose?"
"I don't know. She's gone."
For a good twenty seconds Julia didn't say anything. Then she simply echoed his word. "Gone, Chan?"
"Gone. Why not?" he said trying his best to sound nonchalant. "Her two months were up. She came the end of May. Now she's gone home to New York where she belongs."
"To New York?" Julia was having trouble speaking, all at once.
"
To New York," Chan repeated firmly. "See, Ma," he said, determined to put an end to it, "you were wrong."
There was such a long silence he thought for a moment the connection was broken.
Then she said, "Was I, Chan? Was I really?" And this time she hung up on him.
* * *
"I don't know," Julia said to Antonia moments later. She didn't care what time or even what day it was in Bali. This was an emergency. "I'm worried. Are you sure this is going to work?"
"It's got to," Antonia said. "Everything's in place. The caterer is set. He said just let him know the date. I wired the florist. She said the same. The printer can do invitations at the last minute. The rector said any day, any week, except Saturdays at St. James. All we need is a bride and groom."
"Well, the bride and groom are not cooperating," Julia said. "Chan called this morning. He's in Cheyenne. Madeleine's gone home."
"Home? To New York?"
"Apparently."
"Stay right where you are," Antonia said. "I'll call her and get back to you."
Julia sat by the phone for the rest of the morning. It was well past noon when the phone rang again.
"I called and called and called. I left messages on her machine until I used it up. She's not there," Antonia cried. "What shall we do?"
* * *
Focus.
Ride the bull in your mind.
Concentrate.
Anticipate all his moves.
Center yourself.
Have goals.
See yourself succeed.
Chan stood behind the chutes amidst the noise and bustle and confusion and tried to blot it all out. He knew what he had to do.
But as one rider after another went, while he was usually helping them and focusing on his own upcoming ride, this time he couldn't. He fished his bull rope around and started tightening it, then stared up at the grandstand again, distracted.
"You need some help?"
"Huh?" He looked around to see Dev alongside him on the chute. "No, I'll manage."
"You all right?"
"Fine." He tried to think what he had to do next. He didn't seem to be able to.
"What's the matter with you?"
"Nothin'." Chan pulled on the rope, tightening it.
"Watch it!" Dev said as the bull twisted in the chute, almost trapping Chan's leg.
Chan shook his head, trying to clear it. "Can't seem to get my head together," he muttered.
"Why? What's wrong?"
"I can't concentrate."
"Figures," Dev said.
Chan's head came around sharply. "What's that mean?"
"You're missing Madeleine."
"That's crazy."
"Is it?"
"Of course it is. I mean, it's not like I didn't know she was leaving. I always knew."
"Yeah, you knew. But did you want her to?"
Chan wasn't letting himself think about that. "It doesn't matter what I want," he said gruffly. He eased his leg over Red River's back and settled carefully down onto the bull.
Dev shrugged. "If you say so." He gave Chan's bull rope another pull.
"I say so," Chan insisted. "And anyway, I can't think about her now, damn it. I don't have time. I can't get distracted. I have to think about what's most important."
"Maybe she is."
The words were soft, barely audible, and yet they seemed to hit Chan like a two-by-four alongside his head.
Maybe she is.
He shoved them away, wrapping the bull rope around his hand, then sliding up against his hand, bracing his feet, centering himself.
Maybe she is.
Was she? Was his mother going to get her way after all? Or did his mother and what she wanted even matter? Ever since he was a little boy he'd fought for his autonomy, fought to be the man he wanted to be and not the man he thought his parents wanted. Even when he was wrong and they were right, he'd held out for the sake of holding out, reacting instead of acting.
He'd done the same thing when his mother had mentioned Madeleine. He'd been determined to dislike her, to find fault with her, to walk away from her.
He'd fallen in love with her.
And he'd never said so. He'd let her go. To spite his mother. But whom was he hurting – besides himself?
"Do you reckon it's ever too late to grow up?" he asked now.
Dev blinked. "Huh?"
Chan shook his head. "Nothin'."
"You ready?"
As I'll ever be, he thought. He nodded. The gate opened. The bull surged out, twisted, ducked, flung Chan around to the right. The grandstand was a blur before his eyes. It always was. He'd never cared before. It hadn't ever mattered.
Now it did.
He couldn't help it. He looked.
He forgot the bull, forgot his focus, forgot it all to take one brief glance up where Madeleine had been all summer, where he wished – oh God, how he wished – she was now.
And there—
No, it couldn't be. But he saw dark hair, tangled, windblown. He saw milky white skin and slender shoulders. He saw – Madeleine?
No. It wasn't possible.
She was gone. Back to New York.
The bull whipped left and Chan went with him, but he wasn't really paying attention. He was twisting back, trying to grab another look at the grandstand. Somewhere it was written that you couldn't scan a crowd and ride a bull at the same time. Or maybe it wasn't written. It ought to have been self-evident enough that it didn't even need to be written down.
In any case, he didn't see her. He saw a blur, a spin … and then he saw stars.
He didn't even remember being carried to the medical trailer.
And when he came around at last, woozy and nauseated, he wasn't even sure he'd come around then. Maybe he was still out. Maybe he was dreaming, hallucinating, because wasn't that Decker, all eyes and hair, staring down into his face?
He had an awful sense of déjà vu. He shut his eyes and wondered desperately if maybe he wasn't destined to relive this particular loop of his life until he got it right.
"I've been thinking," Madeleine said, just as she had all those months ago in New York.
Chan groaned.
* * *
She couldn't seem to stop crying. She felt like an idiot, standing there sniveling and sniffling, with everyone looking at her. He wasn't dead.
He was concussed, the doctor told her. But unless the X rays showed something terrible, he would be fine. But still she couldn't stop crying, and he'd opened his eyes again and was looking at her as if she'd lost her mind.
Perhaps she had. God knew she was certainly acting out of character. Or maybe, she thought, she'd finally got in touch with her true self.
"What's the matter with you?" he asked her.
"You," she told him. "I saw you get – get—"
"You've seen me get kicked before," he reminded her.
"I didn't love you then."
There, she'd said it. Loud and clear and in front of God, seven cowboys and the Justin medical staff. They didn't seem to find anything amazing about it. Chan looked poleaxed.
"That's why I came back," she said, when he didn't say anything. She said the words quickly, almost defiantly. She glared at him as she spoke.
He stared to shake his head as if he didn't believe her, then winced and said instead, "Well, I'll be damned."
"Probably," Madeleine said tartly. "I wouldn't be the least surprised—"
A grin spread slowly across his face. "Marry me," he said.
She stared at him. "What?"
"You heard me—"
"Just, marry you? Just like that?"
"Why not? You love me. I love you. What could be simpler?"
Madeleine opened her mouth to argue, to ask him how he knew he loved her. He'd never told her that. Not until now. Then she remembered Alfie. She remembered simple.
Simple, Madeleine thought.
Still she had to ask, "Are you serious?"
"Never more."
&nb
sp; "In spite of our mothers?"
"How'd you guess?"
* * *
He was bruised and cracked and battered. His head hurt, his ribs ached, his groin had suffered another pull. The local paper wrote him up as a walking disaster. But Channing Richardson had news for them: he'd never felt better in his life.
She loved him. She'd come back to him.
He rolled over in bed – very carefully – and said again, "I still don't get it. Your dissertation director sent you back?"
"We discussed the true nature of free will. In the concrete rather than the abstract. I was telling him how I had come back to New York to prove to my mother that she didn't run my life. And he said— Well, I don't remember exactly what he said, but I suddenly realized that the question wasn't what she wanted me to do or didn't want me to do. The real question of free will was what I wanted."
She leaned toward him and kissed his nose, just about the only part of him that didn't hurt. "I wanted you," she said.
He smiled. He wrapped his arms around her and snuggled her close against his chest, and she came, careful of his ribs, kissing him softly, taking his kisses in return, until just kisses weren't enough anymore.
Then with infinite gentleness, she moved over him and he eased inside her. She smiled down at him.
"All my life I was looking for the perfect man, the perfect place, the perfect home," she told him. "Lily once told me that she didn't need any place as long as she had John, that when she was with him she was home. I know now what she meant. And I'll go with you wherever you go for as long as you want."
Chan blinked. His throat tightened. "You haul good, Decker," he said hoarsely. "I do love you." And then he began to move.
And Madeleine moved with him, rocked with him, soared with him, landed with him in the heaven of their embrace and whispered. "I love you, too."
"So you will marry me?" Chan asked, his lips against hers.
And Madeleine said, "I will."
* * *
The next day
"One moment and I'll connect you."
"Ma?" Chan said.
"Mother?" said Madeleine.
"Chan!" said Julia, half hopeful.
"Madeleine, where have you been?" Antonia said, three quarters apprehension.
"Flying," Madeleine said. "I was in New York. Now I'm back in Cheyenne. With Chan."
THE EIGHT SECOND WEDDING Page 20