"Sixty-one," Lily yelled.
Mac nearly fell over. "L-Lily! I gotta call G-Glen f-first."
"Sixty-five," the meat buyer countered.
Lily leaned over to Miriam, who was pretty much chewing the hell out of a toothpick. "What comes after sixty-five?"
"Miss Lily, you don't need a mean, crazy horse-"
"Sesenta y seis!" Cheech yelled at the auctioneer.
"That means `sixty-six,"' Bigfoot yelled.
Possum, who had huddled down between the seats, held up one hand plus one finger, then flashed one hand plus two fingers.
"Sixty-seven," the auctioneer confirmed.
I hung my head and groaned.
"Seventy," one of the meat brokers yelled. He looked miffed. The mare was prime chow. We were crowding his dog-food action.
"What comes next?" Lily asked wildly.
Bigfoot and Joey conferred. "Seventy-one," Bigfoot yelled.
Now the top bidder was truly pissed. "Eighty," he yelled. Everyone in the stands was staring at me. Including Tami Jo Jackson, who laughed.
Mac clamped a big hand on my arm. "I'll w-work extra to p-pay the m-mare's upk-k-eep, Ben. I guess I don't care if Glen's m-mad at me this once. Lily wants that mare. Help."
"Going once," the auctioneer boomed, lifting his gavel.
"Ben, what comes after eighty?" Lily cried. "Is it a lot? You can have my loose-change jar. Forever."
"Benji," Joey said urgently. "Can't we save the mare? I'll help take care of her."
"Going twice," the auctioneer said.
Damn. Another mouth to feed. One that'd probably bite me.
"One hundred," I called.
The auctioneer pointed to the meat bidder. He scowled and shook his head. The gavel came down. "Sold to Thocco Ranch for one hundred dollars!"
The mare dragged the auction hands to a wall and bounced them off it.
"Mercy!" the auctioneer boomed.
Every rancher in north Florida looked at me like I needed my head inspected.
I did.
Chapter 4
Kara New York
Sedge and I stood at the enormous windows of his Manhattan apartment. I looked up at him gently. "It was you who said I should get out in the world. To take some risks."
"I didn't mean you should seek out your birth parents. You're hoping for answers that may be disastrous for you."
"I'll take that risk."
"But my dear, this situation isn't only about you. It will soon be announced"-he hesitated, studying my reaction gently-"that Charles and Elizabeth Whittenbrook are to receive an honorary, posthumous, Nobel Peace Prize for their work in environmentalism."
The Nobel. I sat down slowly on a chair by the picturesque window.
He touched a soothing hand to my hair. "The award will be presented in Sweden, in mid-October. Just a few months from now. You should be there. It would be their dearest wish for you to accept the award in their honor."
I looked up at him miserably. "Of course I'll be there. But what you're really saying is that I shouldn't tell my birth parents who I am. To protect Mother and Dad's legacy."
He nodded. "You're their only child. Can't you find in your heart to remain solely and simply, Kara Whittenbrook?"
"But I'm my birth parents' only child, too. I have two sets of parents to consider."
"One of which wanted you desperately and the other of which gave you away willingly."
"I don't know that, yet."
He lowered himself into an armchair beside mine. "Can we agree that you'll keep your identity secret at least for now? After you meet your birth parents you may not want them to be part of your life. Please, just don't reveal your name to them right away. I beg you. For your parents' sake. "
After a moment, I nodded wearily. "For my parents' sake."
Kara
Atlanta
"I'd like the 1995 two-door silver hatchback, please," I said loudly, as massive passenger planes roared overhead, streaming the scent of jet fuel across the gray Atlanta skies. A spring thunderstorm had left the air wet, heavy and warm. Thus far, the Peach State looked more like the Soggy Generic Metropolitan Industrial Area State, to me. Complete with urban blight, heavy traffic, and a convenience store with barred windows on every corner. But perhaps the parking lot of a used-car dealership five minutes from one of the world's largest airports did not provide an authentic view of the South's capital city.
A large man with coffee-colored freckles adjusted his Atlanta Braves baseball cap on his grizzled Afro and stared me down. "I got a nice, 2000, four-door compact over yonder. Only twelve-five."
"I want that ninety-five hatchback, please."
"Darling, that car's so old even dinosaurs don't recognize it."
"I want it, please. Manual transmission. Minimal greenhouse emissions. An average m.p.g. of forty, city or highway. It suits me perfectly."
"Whatever you say, darling. Just for you? Six thousand."
"That couldn't possibly be the blue book price on a car that age. You're committing highway robbery."
He scowled toward the steady flow of interstate traffic in the distance. "You want to argue about blue-book value? There's the highway, darl ng. Call your taxi back and go try to sucker some other poor, honest, used-car dealer."
I held up my conduit to the world of car prices. "I have a Blackberry, and I'm not afraid to use it."
He frowned harder. "Awright, awright. Fifty-two hundred."
"Forty-five."
"Forty-eight."
"Forty-six, and I'll pay cash."
He smiled. "Sold. Darlin', I'm impressed."
I signed the papers, handed over a stack of crisp bills, and showed my fake driver's license as proof of responsible intent. Karen A. Johnson, it said. Of New Jersey. Age thirty-two, height five-five, red hair, green eyes, one-hundred-thirty-five pounds. Just slightly overweight for a woman of medium bone structure, but more muscle than fat.
My fake driver's license came complete with a fake Social Security number. It would produce vague results should anyone in authority attempt to check it. Sedge and the Whittenbrook security people were very good at finessing fake I.D.'s.
"Thank you," I said politely, as the car dealer handed me a set of keys to my fuel-efficient used car.
"I hope you know what you're doin', darlin'."
I tugged my organic cotton bush hat down low on my forehead. "Indeed."
An hour later, wrestling Atlanta's legendary traffic, I pulled up at the Ritz Carlton Hotel across from Lenox Square Mall, in the heart of Atlanta's gleaming Buckhead district. Sedge and Malcolm occupied a suite high above the city. I, however, was now merely Karen A. Johnson, hatchback owner, who parked along the curb and received unkind stares from a Mercedes' driver.
As Sedge leaned on a cane and Malcolm fussed over the details, I loaded my tote bags, camping gear, easel, art supplies, cameras, and Mr. Darcy's macaw food.
I loaded the harp, last. It was a folic harp, not a concert model, but still stood five-foot high. I was barely able to wedge it, in its hard-shelled case, atop everything else. Its crest protruded between the front seats.
Mr. Darcy cocked his vibrant blue head at the activity and made only one sentient observation: "Mon Dieu," he said.
"May I ask why you're taking the harp?" Malcolm said.
"I'm a traveling artist and musician."
"You could take a banjo instead."
"I play many stringed instruments, but I don't play banjo."
"Where you're going, everyone plays the banjo. I've seen it in films."
"I believe that's just a stereotype, Malcolm."
When I finished my preparations I turned to Sedge, fighting emotion. He appeared to have the same problem. He cleared his throat. "I'll wait here at the hotel until you arrive safely in the wilds of north-central Florida, my dear." He nodded to the file Malcolm laid on the hatchback's driver's seat. "Your maps. Your motel is ten miles east of the Thocco ranch. You have a room with a kitchenette,
reserved for a month."
"I attempted to book you in a closer accommodation," Malcolm added. "But there were only a pair of bed-and-breakfast inns in the nearest small town, Fountain Springs, and neither of them was rated by Zagat or even Triple A."
"Horrifying," I deadpanned.
Malcolm nodded.
I looked at Sedge. "Does my motel allow birds?"
"It does now. Whittenbrook Properties bought it. It discreetly belongs to you."
"No, it discreetly belongs to Kara Whittenbrook." I held up my driver's license. "I'm Karen Johnson. A tad overweight, according to this fake license, but otherwise aptly described."
"I took the physical details off your Connecticut license," Malcolm said. "They're quite accurate."
I scowled at him. Sedge distracted me with a gentle touch. "You have my private cell phone number, for emergencies."
"Yes." Tears stung my eyes. "I think I can be quite self-sufficient for a few weeks in the wilds of suburban Disney World. But thank you."
"My dear, I can only repeat what I've said already. Do not tell anyone who you are. You have no idea what your birth parents may feel, say, or do. You might do them more harm than good by injecting yourself into their simple lives. And I cannot guarantee anything about the man who employs them. By all accounts he takes good care of his own disabled younger brother, and he has no criminal record. That's all I could learn in a short period of time. Perhaps he's a good person, or perhaps not. If he knew who you are he might try to play on your sympathy."
"I can handle him."
Mr. Darcy settled himself atop the headrest of the hatchback's front passenger seat, flattening his four-foot length to avoid the ceiling. I took my place next to him at the steering wheel. I rolled the driver's window down manually and gazed out at Sedge and Malcolm. The sky above their heads had begun to clear, making an azure backdrop for the hotel's blooming dogwoods and azaleas. Perhaps the South was a lovely Technicolor region, after all. "I'll call."
"Do," Sedge said gruffly. Malcolm, looking verklempt, gave a little wave.
I revved the hatchback's fuel-efficient engine. "We're off," I said to Mr. Darcy. We exited the hotel's curving driveway and turned up Peachtree Street through a gauntlet of high-rises and shopping strips. Nary a peach tree, anywhere.
"What, what?" Mr. Darcy said in a campy British accent, cocking his head. He stared at the passenger-side floor, where a paperback book lay atop my hemp macrame purse. Cross Creek, by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings. A famed 1930s memoir of life in the Florida forests. No doubt, he liked the colorful cover of a quaint fish camp beneath moss-draped oaks.
"It's a famous book," I explained. "And Rawlings won a Pulitzer for her novel, The Yearling. Don't read that one, Mr. Darcy, it'll make you cry. She was very observant about inland Florida and its people. You could say she was the Jane Austen of Florida."
"Mon Dieu," Mr. Darcy said.
We headed south.
Ben
The love shack
It was not the kind of thing a man wants to hear a woman say to him in bed. "Sugar?" Paula said gently, rubbing my bare back with one hand. "You've been off your game the past few weeks. Distracted, that's all. Are you sure there's nothing on your mind that's affecting your ... libido?"
My brother was dying, but I hadn't told a soul, yet. And didn't intend to. You start talking about death, you draw death to you. Or to the people you love. I always thought about Mama and Pa.
I raised my left hand with the bandaged forefinger upright. "That new gray mare bites something different on me every week."
Sitting beside me, naked on the rumpled bed, Paula sighed and patted my back some more. A big spring moon was rising outside the cabin's screened door. My love shack was hidden in the ranch's back marshes. Only place I had any privacy.
The moon gleamed on the little fishing lake just beyond the front steps. Spring-fed lake, deep as forever. A couple of college professors from the University of Florida dove down a hundred feet and found the main vent, but who could say how much deeper it went from there? Still waters run deep, they say. In Florida, they run deeper.
Everything's connected in life, in my opinion, just like the water connects the land. We're all heading toward the sea, and the waters can wash us clean.
I wished Paula would just quit talking and enjoy my water scenery. "Sugar," she went on, shaking her head, "I've known you four years and counting. I've seen you show up here some Saturday nights with broken toes, stitches in your head, and bruises the size of pancakes. But nothing's ever stopped you from treating us girls to a good time. This is different. Why don't you drive over to Tallahassee one morning and talk to Dr. Steinberg? I'll get you in without anybody noticing."
Paula managed the front office for a big group of doctors in the state capitol. "Is Steinberg good with chomped fingers?" I asked. "How about stomped feet?"
"He's a shrink, sugar."
I turned and looked down at her in the dark. She was serious. "I'm not crazy. Just bitten."
"You're depressed, Ben. What's wrong?"
I shook my head. Time for a little Thocco magic to change the subject. I slid an arm around her and pulled her close, then put the other hand on her belly. She was soft and snuggly, and I knew just how to stroke the sensitive spot on her Caesarean scar. Paula had three kids, a no-good ex-husband and a full schedule. I rounded her life out with a little fun every fourth Saturday night. We had a perfect man-woman friendship-with-benefits. But now she planted a firm hand on my chest. "You're stalling. Don't try to fake me out. And don't try to fake out the others, either."
I blew out a long breath and let go of her. "Is everybody worried about me?"
"Yes. We're getting a little concerned that maybe you're ready to move on. Maybe you've spotted the future Mrs. Ben Thocco? We'd be happy for you, Ben, but we'd like some warning. You'll be hard to replace, sugar."
My women thought I'd found a potential wife? Hell, I'd given up on even having a regular girlfriend. I didn't have the time, the money or the patience. Pickin's were slim when it came to finding a woman willing to help me run the ranch. I could just picture my ad in the personals:
SCC (Straight Cracker Cowboy) looking for woman willing to work 24/7 on a backwater ranch taking care of livestock, house, garden, land, plus coeds, food and entertainment for seven hired hands who don't drive, cook or understand how to work a TV remote, not to mention a disabled baby brother so sweet he'll break your heart. Must like alligators.
"No wife on the horizon," I grunted to Paula. "What, is everybody comparin' notes?" I shuffled my bare feet on the cabin's plank. floor. A splinter would have felt good, right then.
"We always compare notes. Nothing personal." She punched my shoulder lightly. "That's just the way harems are."
I rubbed a line of tension in my forehead. There are disadvantages to dating four women at once. Not many, but some. Not that you could call my rotating Saturday night appointments with Paula, Suzie, Cathy and Rhonda, "dating." Especially since they knew about each other and not only didn't compete, they'd all gotten to be good friends over the years. "Maybe I'll take a few weeks off and recharge my battery."
"That's a good idea, sugar." She started patting my back again. "We love you, Ben."
There's nothing less sexy than having a naked woman pat your back in sympathy. Even worse when she's representin' a whole group of naked women. "I'll pass the word around," she whispered. "We'll all get back on schedule in a month or two, okay?"
I nodded, defeated. "Better hope the gray mare doesn't bite anything below my belt buckle." I held up my finger. If you think this was hard to bandage . . . "
She laughed and got up to find her clothes. I sat there looking out at the moonlit lake again, wishing I could sink under the shine.
Chapter 5
Kara
I thought of my parents constantly-both pairs-during those two days on the highway to Florida. I touched the gold locket on my chest; I talked out loud to Mother and Dad, hoping the
y heard me. I asked them questions. Did you secretly want me to know? And I asked them for help. Show me what I'm supposed to learn.
Driving alone on unlulmvnl roads opens the mind like meditation. My mind became a kaleidoscope, capturing images. I turned into the scenery.
I was cotton fields, pine forests, pecan groves, endless pastures, acres of peanuts and other crops. I became tall deer fences and the giant, metal spiders of mobile irrigation systems towering over the land. My skin blossomed into a strangely beautiful carnival of gas stations, truck stops, diners, discount outlet malls, trinket shops, and the occasional massage parlor and nudie bar. I was amazed. The Bible belt openly advertised sin?
I stopped at sunset not far from President Jimmy Carter's hometown-1, Plains. I set up my tent in a public campground on the edge of avast peanut field. The cool spring earth smelled of eternity to me. "There is something profoundly ancient in the scent of dirt and all that it symbolizes," Dad always said.
The land seemed to go on forever, reaching a scarlet and gold sky hemmed at the bottom in the majestic silhouettes of huge oaks and the regimented hardiness of tall, straight pres. I lit a lantern next to my small campfire and read Cross Creek in the soft spring dusk.
Mr. Darcy huddled on my shoulder, tented in a light baby's blanket against the chill. He dozed, his head tucked, making soft chuckling sounds against my ear. I believe macaws talk to the God of Birds in their dreams. I wondered if he had memories of his longlost parents.
Before bedtime that night I took one of my spiral notebooks-I loved to catalogue minute details of people and places-and I wrote my birth parents' names on a page in large script.
Lily Akens. Mac Tolbert.
I balled the notepaper in my hand, laid it at the edge of my campfire, and watched the orange flames consume it. To the native tribes in the Amazon, smoke communicates with the spirit world. I watched my birth parents' names rise in the starry, blue-black Georgia sky. Mother, Dad? Meet my mother and father.
I looked at a satellite map on my laptop computer, amazed that I could connect wirelessly at the edge of a Georgia peanut field. I zoomed in on northern Florida, halfway between the Gulf beaches and their Atlantic counterparts. Forest, forest, forest, forest. Creeks, springs. Rivers. The tiniest roads. Zoom in. A splotch of open pasture surrounded by wilderness. The Thocco Ranch.
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