by Beverly Long
He wanted to assure her that he’d be there to help her but knew that he couldn’t. The footprints, the path back home, could come at any time. He’d make no promises that he couldn’t keep.
“You’ll handle the conversation just fine. I know you will.”
“I hope you’re right,” she said as she pulled open the front door. They found Pearl and Aunt Genevieve in the room with the big piano. Pearl sat facing the window with a stack of newspapers on her lap. Her sister sat across from her, the cat slumped over her shoulder, back paws visible, front paws hidden by the woman’s body. She was flipping the pages of what looked to be a catalog.
Melody knelt on the floor next to her grandmother and reached for the woman’s hand. “Did you sleep?”
“For a little while,” Pearl said. She tapped the newspapers on her lap. “I hadn’t made it all the way though the Sunday paper yet so I’ve spent the better part of the last hour doing that.”
Sunday paper. Good Lord. It had to be two inches thick. Was there so much happening in this strange world that they needed all that space to tell about it? His fingers itched to get hold of the newspaper, to somehow get his bearings.
Aunt Genevieve looked up from her catalog. “So, what do you think of our little winery?”
“I think you both should be very proud,” he said.
She nodded, like she was satisfied with his answer. Pearl sat her papers aside and slowly stood up. “It’s been a labor of love,” she said. “Now how about I show you the horses. Genevieve, are you coming?”
“No. I’m going to my room.” She whistled and the cat, going completely boneless, slid off her shoulder. It landed in her cradled arms and she held it like one would a baby. The animal never even opened its eyes. George tried not to stare as the woman, who had considerably more ease and agility than her sister, stood up.
“Mona knows I’ll catch her every time,” the woman said, in way of explanation as she looked at the cat. “Complete trust, George. That’s what it takes.”
***
Given the questions George asked Grandmother about the horses, Melody assumed he’d grown up with the animals. When they got to the corral, he opened the wide gate and stepped inside, then did nothing but stand there, letting the horses get used to him being in their space. She and Grandmother stayed back. When her grandmother folded her arms, placed them on the top rail, and leaned her weight against the fence, Melody did the same.
He was patient and one by one, all six of them finally wandered over. He let them smell him and bump their heads up against his shoulder and his chest. Then he murmured a few words and gave them a brisk rub between the ears.
“That’s Brontë,” Grandmother said, pointing to the one who came up last. “I used to ride her every day.”
“She’s a beauty,” George said, running a hand across the brown mare’s sleek coat. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the horse. “I had one very much like her,” he said, his voice soft. “Ran like the wind.”
Grandmother smiled at Melody. “As does she. There are several saddles to choose from in the barn,” she added.
George looked over his shoulder at Grandmother. “Are you sure?” he asked. And Melody knew he wasn’t asking about the saddle. He was asking permission to take what had up to now always been Grandmother’s.
Grandmother unfolded her arms and pushed her body away from the fence. She stared first at the horses and then at George. She had a soft smile on her face. “I can’t think of anything that would give me greater pleasure.”
George hesitated for a brief moment before taking off for the barn, his long stride eating up the distance. Grandmother turned toward Melody. “I imagine your days of riding are temporarily over.”
She patted her stomach. “I don’t think Jingle is so inclined.”
“Jingle?”
“Gender-neutral,” Melody explained.
“Of course.”
It had always been like that with her grandmother. There’d never been any need for long explanations. There had been simple understanding, unwavering acceptance, unconditional love.
Truth.
Until now. Recently neither one of them had been very forthcoming with that.
She dug her foot into the soft earth and stared at the almost-unidentifiable shape of the oak trees that lined the far edge at the property. “You should have told me right away that you were sick.”
“I’m old, Melody. Old people get sick.”
She could feel the hot rush of tears and knew that it would take a miracle to keep them back. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I wish I could do something.”
Her grandmother reached over and patted her hand. “You’re here. It’s the biggest something I could have asked for.”
She turned to face her grandmother and with an impatient hand brushed off the tears that would not be denied. “I love you,” she said.
“And I love you, darling. As you will love your child and then years from now, his or her children. You know what they say? Children never know how much they were loved until they have children of their own.”
Melody gently wrapped her arms around her grandmother’s body and tried to pull her close. Her stomach got in the way, causing both of them to laugh. “I will be here as long as you need me,” Melody said, wiping a tear away. “I promise.”
“How does your husband feel about that?”
Melody swallowed. Truth. This was her chance.
CHAPTER SIX
“He. . .he. . .,” she stammered. He’s not my husband. She couldn’t do it. She would not give her grandmother something new to worry about. “He knows how important you are to me.”
Grandmother smiled. “That’s lovely.” She reached for Melody’s hand. “You’ve gotten yourself a good man.”
Her good man had gotten a saddle from the barn and was making short work of getting Brontë saddled. With one final tug, he tightened the cinch. He put one foot in the stirrup and swung the other effortlessly over the horse’s back.
“He sits a horse well,” Grandmother said.
Oh boy. Did he ever. His back was straight and strong and his butt seemed made for the saddle. When he used his legs to guide the horse, Melody had no trouble imagining what it would be like to have those same legs wrapped around her.
She felt warm in places the sun couldn’t possibly reach. George Tyler was handsome, smart, and polite. Perfect.
It was really too bad this was just a temporary assignment for him.
“Will you walk me back to the house?” Grandmother asked. Her voice sounded tired.
“Of course.” Melody put her arm under her grandmother’s elbow. With one last long look at George, she turned back toward the house.
When they got inside, her grandmother lay down on the big green leather sofa and Melody sat at the far end. She sat quietly long after her grandmother had fallen asleep. Bright sunshine, split into streaks by the almost-closed horizontal blinds, danced across the hardwood floor, skipped over the backs of chairs, and finally settled on her face.
She felt safe and warm and very thankful to be home. She knew she was wrong to lie to her grandmother. But knew too that she’d do far worse than lie in order to make the woman’s last few months on this earth worry-free.
She didn’t know how long she sat there but at some point she closed her eyes and didn’t wake up until the front door closed with a slam. She straightened up, realizing immediately that her neck had been at a most unusual angle for sleeping. She gently turned her head side to side, easing the kinks out. She saw then that the afternoon sun had lost both its height and intensity as the day faded into early evening.
Tilly and Louis walked into the room. Tilly’s hair was windblown and she wore dark sunglasses. Louis was carrying his keys in one hand and a half-drunk bottle of beer in the other. Melody figured they’d been out in their convertible—drinking and driving. It made her want to wrap her arms around her stomach and always protect her unborn child from all the fools like them.
Melody glanced at Grandmother just in time to see her open her eyes, realize who was coming, and close them again. Melody figured that perhaps she was debating whether or not she should pretend to still be asleep. Having been cooped up inside, away from her horses and the myriad of other chores that would normally have occupied her time, had no doubt given Grandmother plenty of opportunities to chat with Tilly and Louis.
Melody decided to help her out. She put a finger up to her lips. “Be quiet. Grandmother’s sleeping.”
However, either Grandmother’s impeccable manners kicked in or she’d just plain lost her common sense because the woman sat up on the couch. She rubbed her eyes. “Where were you two this afternoon?” she asked.
Tilly’s head jerked up. “Nowhere. Why do you ask?”
Grandmother shrugged. “Just making conversation, Tilly.”
“Where’s your husband?” Louis asked Melody, before he tipped his beer up and drained it.
“Getting acquainted with the horses,” she said.
Tilly sat in the chair opposite the couch. “That’s so convenient, isn’t it, that he’s had experience with them?”
Coming from someone else, it would have been casual conversation. From Tilly, Melody knew it was the prelude to a full-blown inquisition.
“Your grandmother mentioned that the two of you dated a few years ago. I don’t believe I ever heard you mention him before.”
Bingo.
She’d never been good at party games. She stood up. “I’m sure I must have mentioned him,” she said. Before the next question came, she turned to her grandmother. “I’ve still got unpacking to do. I’ll see you at dinner.”
“Of course, darling. By the way, we’re having a guest. It’s Rebecca Fields of cookbook and cable television fame.”
“Louis mentioned it earlier.”
Her grandmother smiled. “I thought it was the least we could do. She’s really lovely on television and Bessie’s even tried some of her recipes. I think that speaks to her powers of persuasion.”
Bessie didn’t like admitting that anybody knew anything about cooking that she hadn’t already forgotten. “It should be fun to meet her,” Melody said. “Do you still eat at seven?”
“Absolutely.”
On her way out of the room, Melody heard Tilly ask Grandmother if she wanted her to rub her back. Grandmother answered with a grateful-sounding yes. It made Melody less irritated with her aunt. Whatever else Tilly had ever been, she’d always been kind to her mother.
Melody stopped at the desk in the foyer and grabbed the telephone book out of the top drawer. She did need to unpack but she also needed to find an obstetrician. She’d seen her own doctor three times. He’d listened to the baby’s heart, pronounced Melody sound, and sent her on her way with prenatal vitamins big enough that they looked remarkably like the horse pills her grandmother kept in the stable cupboards. But every day she forced one down, followed by at least six crackers and a glass of milk.
Once she got to her room, she sat on the edge of her bed, opened the phone book to the yellow pages and ran her finger down the list of physicians. Fortunately, she had a name. Her friend, who had owned the restaurant where she’d been working, had a sister in Napa who’d had a baby the previous year. She’d raved about her obstetrician.
Melody found the name she was looking for and dialed the office on her cell phone. When the receptionist answered, she explained her situation and waited while the woman checked availability. She had expected to have to wait a couple weeks but was delighted when the woman said that she could take a cancellation the day after tomorrow. She ended the call just before there was a light knock on the door.
Thinking it could be Tilly, she debated feigning sleep but decided it was an okay short-term but a darn poor long-term solution. She couldn’t stay in her room forever. Jingle had gotten used to eating every three hours. There’d be some serious consequences if she missed dinner. “Come in,” she said.
The door opened slowly and George stood there. His hair was messed and his cheeks had a hint of pink from the sun. He carried an old straw cowboy hat in his hand. Grandmother had always kept extra in the barn. “Your grandmother said you were likely unpacking,” he said. He made no move to come in.
“Just started,” she said. She was glad she was sitting. George Tyler did the windblown cowboy look very well. She could smell the sweet mix of horse and fresh grass tangled up with the scents of budding wisteria and wild mustard. He’d been in the meadow. “Enjoy the horses?” she asked.
“I did,” he said and for a minute, his eyes didn’t look so serious. “I’m grateful to your grandmother for letting me ride.”
“I think she thinks you’re the one doing her a favor. I don’t have to tell you how lucky you are to have landed that particular job. I’ll be getting carpal tunnel while you’re galloping across the valley.” She said it so that he’d know she was teasing.
“Carpal tunnel?” he repeated. If anything, he looked even more serious.
Had no one in the sheriff’s office ever had a worker’s compensation injury? “Never mind,” she said.
He continued to stand in the doorway.
“George, come in. It is your room, too,” she whispered.
If anything, his cheeks took on a slightly pinker hue. But he came in—far enough that he could shut the door behind him. He leaned his very fine rear end against the edge of the dresser.
When he didn’t say anything, she got nervous. Like a fool, she held up her cell phone. “I got a referral from a friend. You know, for an OB-GYN. I. . .uh. . .just called him and set up an appointment.”
He chewed on the corner of his bottom lip. “An O. B. G. Y. N?”
He said each letter like it was a separate word. Good grief. The man had said he was married. Surely his wife had had an occasional doctor’s visit. “An obstetrician-gynecologist. You know, somebody who delivers babies.”
His head jerked up. “Did I grab you too hard earlier?”
“No. I’m fine,” she said and tried to squelch the rush of heat that started to spread outward from her belly button. He acted like he really cared, that it wasn’t just a job for him.
“I’m sorry about that,” he said.
“Not your fault. Just some kind of crazy accident.”
He crumpled up the brim of his cowboy hat. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
What? “George, you were there. You saw what happened.”
He shook his head. “I don’t want to upset you or to worry you needlessly. But just a few minutes ago, when I came into the house, I heard your aunt and your uncle talking. They weren’t in the room with the piano or the dining room. It was the room off to the left.”
“That’s a little sitting area,” she said.
“Yeah, well, they were sitting in there and talking about you. I heard your aunt tell her husband that it might have been nice if the wine barrel had hit you—that their problems would all be taken care of.”
“Oh.” After a minute, she said it again. “Oh.” Then she felt stupid that that was the only word she could think of. It was just such a hateful thing for Tilly to have said. “What did Louis have to say?” she asked, rather inanely. What did it matter?
“He told his wife not to worry about you. That he had it under control.”
“I see. You know, if you hurry, you’ve got time to shower before dinner,” she said.
“What?” He looked at her like she was crazy. “Did you hear what I said?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “First of all, what happened in the wine shed was an accident. There’s no way that Louis and Tilly could have known that I was going to be in the shed at the exact moment that Montai was moving barrels. And second of all, it’s not news that Tilly and Louis can’t stand me. But they aren’t going to hurt me. That’s too crazy, even for them.”
“People do crazy things. Bad things,” he added.
His voice was hard and he said it like he’d had some experience with ba
d people or bad things, or maybe both.
“They can’t hurt me with words. I’m not thirteen anymore,” she added, before she thought better of it.
He moved a step closer to the bed. “What happened when you were thirteen?” he asked. His green eyes were narrowed and his jaw set.
She played with the zipper on her suitcase. She did not want to get into this—it was ancient history. But she thought it quite possible that if she didn’t, George would go find Louis and keep at him until the man told him what George wanted to know. “Oh, fine. Shortly after my parents died he told me that it was my fault that my parents were killed.”
“That’s ridiculous,” George said. “You were just a child.”
“Well, true. I mean part of what he said was right. He said that they’d have never been on that particular stretch of road, that particular night, if it wasn’t for me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We lived about a hundred miles north of Los Angeles. The summer I turned thirteen, my best friend moved to Los Angeles and we’d made plans for me to go spend a couple weeks with her in the summer. They’d dropped me off at her house and were on their way back, when they crashed over the side of the road.”
“But you weren’t even there. You had nothing to do with it.”
She so didn’t want to talk about this. “Look, it was a stormy night and my parents didn’t really want to make the drive there and back. But I begged and begged. I missed my friend and I’d waited months to see her. I didn’t want to wait another night.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” he said again, like he was determined to convince her.
“What I’ve come to realize over the years is that it doesn’t really matter whose fault it was. What matters is that my grandmother lost a daughter, Tilly lost a sister, and the world lost two really wonderful people.”
He looked mad. “That’s a heavy burden for a thirteen-year-old. Your family should have been the ones telling you that it wasn’t your fault. Not the other way around. Did you ever tell you grandmother what Louis had said?”