by Sheryl Lynn
“Mrs. H.? Are you all right?”
Laura turned from the window. Dashing surreptitiously at her teary eyes, she flashed a weak smile at the housekeeper, who carried a large brown box.
“The UPS man stopped by.” She placed the box on a table “Would you like me to open it?”
“Sure.” She’d ordered some clothing from a catalog. The prospect of wearing something that fit gave her a flutter of excitement. The housekeeper ripped off tape and opened the flaps.
“There you go, ma’am. I’ll be pleased to press the packing wrinkles out of your new things.”
“Thank you.” Laura pulled out the top item, a simple linen and silk dress with three-quarter sleeves and buttons up the front. She searched through the box for the flower-printed petticoat to wear under it.
“That’s very nice,” Mrs. Weatherbee said.
Laura glanced toward her closets. “Everything I have is so...” Flashy and trampy. “Fancy.” She smoothed a hand over the soft dress. The order included several dresses, underwear and a pair of pink ballerina flats.
“I just can’t get over how much you’ve changed,” Mrs. Weatherbee said as she shook out the dress. She eyed the wrinkles critically.
“Am I really that different?”
“As long as you’re asking, then I’ll tell you. No offense, but it’s all for the better. Used to be, you were all outside and no inside. I wouldn’t wish what you’ve been through on anybody, but it knocked loose what good there was inside and brought it to the light.”
“I’m not certain I follow.”
“Hmm.” The housekeeper held up the dress by the shoulders. “Before, the only thing that mattered was the way you looked. I don’t think you even liked that. Shoot, I never knew what you’d look like from one day to the next. Sometimes you were a blonde and sometimes a carrot top. You spent more time in beauty parlors than most women spend in the kitchen. I must have seen fifty different hair colors on your head.”
Laura touched her hair. The white streak that followed the surgical scar had at first bothered her, but now she rather liked it. It drew attention away from the shiny scar tissue ringing her face.
“What color looked best?”
Mrs. Weatherbee sniffed. “I think that pretty chestnut you’re wearing is just fine. If you’re asking.” She laughed suddenly and her big shoulders lifted. “You couldn’t even decide what color your eyes were! One day blue, another green. You were a regular chameleon.”
“Oh.” That solved a minor mystery Laura had been pondering. Though her eyesight was fine, she’d found dozens of contact lens cases in her bathroom.
“To tell you the truth, I like this dress a hundred times better than anything in your closets.”
Laura silently agreed. “I take it I was quite fashion conscious.”
“Oh, my good Lord, yes. You couldn’t miss a fashion show or pass up one of those magazines. I don’t think you ever wore an outfit twice. You reminded me of that actress, what’s her name, who always looks like a different person in every show. She even puts on a different voice...” Her mouth twisted in a disapproving grimace. “No offense, but shop and show off was about all you ever did.”
Another mystery solved. Ryder spoke to her of fashion not for him, but because of her. He must think that’s all she cared about. She could have cried.
“I appreciate your candor, Mrs. Weatherbee. Far more than you can know. And yes, I’d appreciate it very much if you’d press this dress for me. I’d like to wear it today.”
Time for a chat with Mr. Ryder Hudson, Laura thought.
It took the housekeeper about as much time to press the new clothes as it did for Laura to brush her hair and use a curling iron. In her bathroom, she lightly pushed around bottles and cases of cosmetics. No memories filtered to the surface. Nothing felt familiar.
She didn’t have the same tastes as she did before.
She no longer felt any urges to cheat or lie.
Maybe Dr. Lopez was right after all and at least some of her amnesia was psychological. The accident gave her an opportunity to shed her unhappy past like an outgrown skin.
She applied a bit of mascara to her lashes and a dusting of blush to her pale cheeks. A light coat of lipstick made her crooked mouth look more natural.
Her new dress was loose and airy, pretty in its soft blue color over the bright petticoat.
She smiled at her reflection, mustering courage. Her husband was a good man. He was generous and kind and he went out of his way to take good care of her. He stinted on nothing—except his time. If she wanted more of his time, then it was up to her to earn it.
Using her cane because Ryder grew anxious when she didn’t, she braved the cool air outside on the way to the studio. She let herself in.
The studio astonished her. The high ceiling with exposed beams was cut with skylights that enhanced the light streaming through the banks of plate glass. A country-and-western singer crooned mournfully through wallmounted speakers. Tables held stacks of wood, rolls of canvas and boxes and jars full of paints and brushes. The smells of pine-sharp turpentine and linseed oil mingled with the flat chemical smells of paint.
The studio fairly breathed with vitality, crackled with creative energy. After the overblown sterility of the house, it was an oasis of color and texture and scent.
Hearing Ryder speaking to someone, she wandered slowly between the tables. One held dozens of tiny wax figures of cowboys, horses and cattle. Another was covered with watercolor paintings. Every inch of wall space and every thick column post was covered with sketches and photographs. Framing materials hung in one corner over a table laid with an elaborate framing machine and mat cutter.
She reached a doorway and peered in at an office. It was little more than a closet big enough for a desk and file cabinets, and it was as messy and overstuffed as the studio. Ryder perched a hip on the desk while he talked on the telephone.
He didn’t look happy. “I don’t care about the deadline. The colors aren’t right and the prints look muddy. I’m destroying the whole run. I can’t be putting my John Hancock on something I hate.” He rubbed his eyes with the flats of his fingers. “All right! One week, I promise. I’ll find another printer.” He smiled, nodding. “And same to you, buddy. Say hello to Penny and the kids for me.” He hung up and sighed.
He looked at Laura and jumped. A cup overturned and pencils clattered to the floor.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“What are you doing here?”
His suspiciousness disheartened her. “Is this forbidden territory?”
“Uh, no.” He cleared magazines and file folders off the desk chair and offered it to her. He crouched to pick up pencils.
She eased onto the chair. “I wanted to talk to you. But it’s a bad time, I suppose. You seem busy.”
“Discombobulated, more like,” he said with a wry grin. “The faster I move, the more behind I get.”
“Who were you talking to?”
“My agent. I was supposed to send him some lithos, but they didn’t come back right from the printers. So I’m behind schedule and the galleries are chewing on his leg. I don’t like the printer, so that means shopping for another.” He dropped the pencils in the cup. “Never mind, it’s nothing that would interest you.”
“Don’t say that.”
“What?”
“That it won’t interest me. I think you’re a very interesting man. This studio and your art, it’s like wonderland. It’s a side of you I hadn’t expected, but I think it’s marvelous.”
He pulled at his jaw and lowered his face so she could see only the suspicious gleam in his eyes beneath his bat.
“The entire world has disappeared for me,” she said softly, “and I need to start living again.”
His eyes darted around the room. Leaning his backside against the desk, he rubbed his hands on his thighs. “Do you want to go shopping or throw a party?” He thrust his face forward and h
is gaze swept her head to toe. “That’s a new outfit. Nice.”
She choked down her impatience. “Thank you, but what I want to do is have a serious talk with you.” She held up a hand. “Please, no fashion, no sales, no who’s doing what for what foundation and wearing what to what party. Not a word about television shows. I hate TV. Maybe I wanted to talk about those things before, but I’m not in the least bit interested now.”
The broad brim of his hat cast a shadow over his face, but still his skepticism came through loud and clear. “So what do you want to talk about?”
“Us.”
He crossed his legs and slid a hand over the back of his neck. His cheek twitched. “There’s not much to say.”
“We’re married. We must have a history.”
His voice dropped to a mumble “We never were much of an us.”
Her chest began to ache. “Surely we have some common interests.”
He frowned and idly adjusted the angle of his hat. “You never liked the ranch. You refused to live in my cabin, so that’s why I built the big house for you. You think my friends are hicks and stump-jumpers, and you won’t go to a rodeo or stock show on a bet. You can’t stand animals. You don’t have much use for my painting. You never went to art shows with me.” He lifted his shoulders. “I went with you to those fancy shindigs, but I’m not much for formal parties. You always had a taste for folks who like your bank account better than they like you.”
Not feeling tremendously sorry for herself took almost physical effort. She forced her hands to remain still in her lap. She focused on keeping her breathing slow and steady. That he preferred to be doing anything other than having this talk came through loud and clear. All her questions and logical thoughts shriveled and dried into dust.
“I guess you want to go back to work.”
He nodded and pushed away from the desk. “We can talk more at supper.”
His relief broke her heart. She knew if she accepted defeat now, she’d never work up the nerve to try again. “If I promise not to bother you, may I stay here?”
He recoiled, eyes wide. “It’s dirty.”
“I can neaten it up. Please, Ryder? I need something to do. I’m so bored, I’m dying. I can’t live like this anymore. I feel like a turtle in a glass bowl. I promise, cross my heart, I will not disturb you or throw anything away.” Though ashamed of her begging, desperation made her try a winning smile. “Please?”
Looking more confused than anything, he said she could stay. He left the office and went to a large canvas mounted on an easel. From the doorway she watched him. He picked up a brush, but looked at her instead of the canvas.
She slipped back inside the office and slumped on the chair. Holding the cane in both hands, she ground the rubber tip against the floor and tried to remember what Mrs. Weatherbee had said. The good inside her had been knocked free so it showed outside—or words to that effect. She had changed. Her life meant more than empty society shindigs and spending Ryder’s hard-earned money.
From the floor she picked up an envelope. It had a return address from an art gallery in Atlanta, Georgia. The postmark told her it had been mailed more than a month ago. She noticed a lot of unopened mail. Some was stacked willy-nilly on the desk and file cabinets, some had fallen onto the floor. Gathering the mail, she noted some of it was months old.
She stepped to the doorway. “Ryder? There’s a lot of mail to tend. Would you like me to sort it?”
He gave her a wave that told her to do whatever she wanted. She doubted he’d paid any attention to what she’d said.
She cleared a spot on the desk top. For a moment the computer distracted her. She fingered the monitor screen lightly, mindful not to rub dust so it scratched the glass. The white casing plucked a faint chord deep inside her.
Shaking the strange feeling away, she began opening Ryder’s mail. Several envelopes, from a man she guessed was Ryder’s agent, contained checks. One check, two months old, was for one hundred and twenty thousand dollars. Incredulous, she counted the zeros several times until she convinced herself the amount was for real.
She wanted to march up to Ryder and demand to know why he was so careless. Except, if he cared, then he wouldn’t have let his correspondence get so far behind in the first place: So she squashed down her irritation and kept sorting the mail, eventually ending up with several piles stacked in order of perceived importance.
A quick check of the desk drawers produced a bank ledger and deposit slips. The ledger hadn’t been reconciled in months. How the man survived, she hadn’t a clue.
She took the checks to Ryder.
She glanced at the painting he worked on, then did a double take. It showed a dilapidated log building with crooked windows and plank doors. A pair of saddled horses was tied to a hitching rail. In the foreground, using a wooden fruit basket tacked to the building, two cowboys played basketball.
Placing a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing at the whimsical charm of the scene, she watched him paint. With a firm hand, he daubed color onto the canvas. There was something incongruous about the sight of him, tall and lean and hard-bodied, in his tight jeans and boots, his hat cocked at a rakish angle, looking as if he should be riding the range chasing cows, yet wielding the paintbrush with the sure confidence of a master. Even as she watched, the cowboy holding the ball developed a mischievous glint in his eyes as he laid up for a shot. It was ten—no, fifty times better than any of the ugly, abstract paintings hanging in the house.
She waited until he lowered his brush before speaking. “It’s wonderful.”
He actually blushed. “It’s different, anyway.” He looked between her and the painting. “Do you really like it?”
“They look so real, I can see the dust on them and how their boots are worn from rubbing against the stirrups. The horses are beautiful. So alive.” She met his eyes and the warmth in them melted her insides, making her knees feel weak and her stomach all funny. She thrust a pen and the checks at him. “I don’t want to disturb you. So if you’ll just take a moment and sign these, I’ll put them in the mail to the bank.”
He caught his lower lip in his strong white teeth. He endorsed the checks.
For the first time she could remember, Laura felt like Mrs. Ryder Hudson, wife and member of the family.
LAURA PAUSED in the doorway of Abby’s bedroom. The room represented every cliché possible for sugar and spice and everything nice—white-painted French provincial furniture with hand-painted roses and ribbons on the bed headboard and on drawer fronts; pink gingham ruffles on the canopy bed and windows; wallpaper patterned with pink and white roses among pale green ivy vines; floor-to-ceiling shelves stocked with fluffy stuffed animals; children’s classic storybooks perched on bookshelves; heart-shaped throw rugs atop the velvety carpet.
It was as neat as a museum display. None of the toys looked played with.
Hearing footsteps on the back stairs, Laura recognized Abby’s skipping tread. Her baby, so tiny and perfect, home from kindergarten. Every day, Mrs. Weatherbee picked her up from school. No doubt, on the long ride home Abby had regaled the woman with the doings of her class and what she’d learned from the teacher.
Laura wanted that place in her daughter’s heart. She wanted to read her stories and help her learn her numbers and letters. Abby turned the corner and stopped short. Rebellion tightened her features.
“There’s a lot of pink in your room,” Laura said, taking care with each word. “Do you like pink?”
Abby eyed her suspiciously and edged a step closer to the stairs. “No.”
“Why did I put so much pink in your room, then? I don’t particularly like this cotton-candy color, either.”
Abby shrugged.
“It was rather silly of me to put all your dolls up so high, too. How do you reach them?”
“They’re leckables,” Abby said.
Laura had to think about it a moment before realizing the child meant collectibles. “Oh. So where are the toy
s you play with?”
Abby fingered the wall and twisted her boot toe on the floor. “I let my pony keep ’em.”
An image formed in Laura’s mind. The lonely little girl sneaking into the barn, far away from her mother’s critical eye, and stashing her precious toys under the straw or inside a wooden box full of dusty grain. Emotion rose in Laura’s throat. She struggled to maintain her calm. “What would you think about redoing your room? Only this time you pick the colors and we’ll put those collectibles somewhere else so there’s room for your toys.”
“I can pick the colors?” Abby asked suspiciously. “Even green?”
“If you want It’s your room.”
Abby sidled toward Laura. “And purple. I like purple.”
“Green and purple, very cheerful. Some catalogs came in the mail this week. While you have your snack in the kitchen, we can look at them and see if there’s anything in there you like.”
“Okay.”
“And maybe you can help me pick some nice colors for the living room.”
“I’m not ’lowed in the living room.”
Laura bit back an exclamation of disbelief. She forced a smile. “That’s the old rule. The new rule is, this is your house and you can go anywhere you want to.”
Abby glanced at the French doors. “Even on the balcony?”
“Sure. You’re a big girl, you won’t fall off. You do promise to not fall off, right?”
Abby narrowed her eyes. “Even your bedroom?”
“If you knock first. It’s only polite.”
“I’m polite, Mama.”
Laura’s heart filled and overflowed. Mama. Pushing her luck, she offered a hand. “Let’s go on down to the kitchen and look at the catalogs. I think Mrs. Weatherbee made some apple crisp. I bet she’ll let us snitch a little piece.”
Abby eased her tiny hand into Laura’s.
“You know what? You’re the best little girl in the world. I sure am glad you’re mine.”
Abby squeezed Laura’s finger and held on tight all the way down the stairs to the kitchen.
PREOCCUPIED with thinking about bison, Ryder strode from the garage to the house. His rocky forest land wouldn’t support many animals, but after spending a day at Shook’s Hollow Ranch photographing its domesticated herd, the idea tickled him more than ever.