“What’s going on?” Karen asked.
“It’s like a ‘be careful what you wish for’ story. A couple months ago I had this idea and it worked so well the partners made me the marketing director. So now I’m doing that, on top of my old job of office manager.” Lorraine’s phone buzzed. “Gosh darn it; not again.” She read a new text, tapped a quick reply, and stuck it in her purse. “I hate being a supervisor.”
Karen felt her pulse quicken. “What’s the problem? Maybe I can help.”
“You can’t help.”
“Try me.”
“Okay. There are these two legal secretaries in my office, and they’re in a competition to see who can do the least work. So nothing gets done, the attorneys get mad, and I get blamed.”
“And you’re the supervisor?”
“In name only.” Lorraine paused as the waitress brought their entrées. She placed a steaming Reuben sandwich in front of Karen.
Sauce dripped out the sides and the aroma of hot pastrami made her weak with longing. She bit into the sandwich. The rich tang of warm Thousand Island dressing nearly brought tears to her eyes.
Lorraine took a couple of quick tastes of soup and set the spoon down. “The three of us used to be friends, but then I got promoted so that got messed up.”
“But you’re the boss now,” said Karen.
“I’m a glorified paralegal. I know zip about supervision and don’t have time to learn. It’s hopeless.”
Karen stirred artificial sweetener into her drink. “Law offices are all about billable hours, right? So why not have the women keep work logs, and have them do a weekly review with the managing partner. Tell them it’s a new policy to make sure the office bills enough. That way they’ll be forced to show how much work they do, but it won’t look punitive.”
“They’d hate that.” Lorraine cocked her head to the side. “You know what? That is actually a brilliant suggestion. Thanks.”
“Welcome.” Karen took another hearty bite of the sandwich. The sauce alone was to die for. She licked a finger.
“So are you going to hang around for a while? There’s a big event at the college next weekend. Denise, Glenda, and a couple of my other friends are going. They’re all business people. We could drink too much and complain about work.”
“She can probably use a day off,” said Aunt Marie. “I’ve worked her pretty hard.”
“It depends on how things are going back at the office.” Karen set the sandwich down. With the help of Skype and email, and the excellent camouflage provided by Peggy and Stacey, she had managed easily. “As long as I get back by Tuesday morning, I’m good.”
“What about Steve?” asked Aunt Marie.
Lorraine stirred her soup. Karen took a gulp of iced tea, which gave her brain-freeze and bought her a few agonized moments to figure out how to break the news.
“Is anything wrong?”
With Aunt Marie, it was best to be honest. She’d figure it out anyway. “We’re separated. He moved out a couple months ago.”
“I am sorry,” said Aunt Marie, “but I’m not surprised.”
“You’re not?” Karen and Lorraine spoke in unison.
“No. Lena saw it coming. She told me she was worried about you two. Then, when he didn’t show up here, I thought something must have happened.”
“How could Mom have known? I never said anything.”
“She’s your mother.” Aunt Marie reached over and grasped Karen’s hand. “Every Sunday after you called, Lena and I would talk, and we agreed there were signs. For example, you rarely mentioned him.”
“But why didn’t she ask me?”
“She didn’t want to pry. She figured she’d wait until you said something.”
Karen thought she had done a pretty good job of hiding the truth from her mother, couching any marital updates in vague terms. Now she felt sick. “I made her worry, and she knew I was lying.”
“She knew you were unhappy, but she said her prayers and hoped it would work out.”
“I tried,” said Karen, her eyes settling on an indeterminate point in front of her. “We both did. We’ve been struggling for years. It goes all the way back to when I was trying to get pregnant.”
“Lena thought you were going to separate back then,” said Aunt Marie.
“We almost did. It was hard for both of us, but for Steve–I don’t know. People thought he was a workaholic but I knew why he stayed so busy.” They were a perfectly matched pair, hiding in their work. She couldn’t remember the last time they had dinner together, let alone sex. Karen had tried to tell herself it was about middle age. Given their work schedules, he’d taken to sleeping in the guest bedroom, and she didn’t resist, although some nights she missed the simple comfort of his body next to hers.
“Every couple finds their own way of coping.” Aunt Marie turned to Karen. “Is there any chance you two might be able to work things out? Have you tried counseling?”
“He had an affair, and now his girlfriend is pregnant.”
Aunt Marie looked down at her plate, but Lorraine was not so subtle. “What an unbelievable bastard.”
“I can’t imagine him having children at his age, dear.”
“Nevertheless.” Karen signed the bill, aware that her hand was shaking, and put the pen back on the plastic tray. The three of them sat in silence.
“Well, this is depressing” Lorraine moved to stand. “I don’t want to seem heartless, but I have to get back to work. You guys doing anything fun this afternoon?”
Aunt Marie nodded. “We have an appointment with Patrick at the mortuary.”
Chapter Eleven
AT STEVENSON’S, THEY almost ran into Patrick on his way out the door. “Oh my gosh, I apologize, but I have to leave right away. Our bookkeeper can help you. Let me show you to her office.” He led them down a deeply carpeted hallway, past the chapel and into a bright, well-organized room. “This is Jennie. She’ll take real good care of you.”
Jennie smirked when she saw him. “Aren’t you going to be late for your meeting with Dr. Green?” She pantomimed a golf swing.
Patrick blushed. “Again, ladies, I apologize.”
“Where are you playing?” asked Karen.
“The Bully Pulpit, in Medora. Do you golf?”
“Not for a while.”
“Why don’t you join us?”
“I don’t have clubs or the proper clothes.” Karen indicated her new Walmart ensemble.
“You’re fine,” said Patrick. “They rent clubs, and I don’t think you’re going to violate the North Dakota dress code. Why don’t you come?”
Karen knew the Bully Pulpit was challenging, and her game was rusty. On the other hand, it would be good to get outside, and she could use the exercise. She looked at her aunt, who made a gesture like get outta here!
“Are you sure you don’t need me?”
“No, you kids go on. Have fun.”
The Bully Pulpit clubhouse sat on a bluff overlooking the Little Missouri River. Down below, the fairways wove in and out of a miniature Grand Canyon, with extreme elevation changes between tee box and green. Karen hoped she wouldn’t embarrass herself.
At the pro shop, she bought a logo shirt, glove, and visor. Outside, Patrick was high-fiving a man who looked vaguely familiar. When they came through the door she extended her hand in wonder. “Curt Hoffman.”
“All I get is a handshake? Come here.” He swept her into a hug, and then held her at arms’ length. Karen studied him back. His dark hair was now short and dusted with gray, and his eyebrows perched full and straight over deep-set brown eyes. He wore beige linen slacks that nipped his waist and flowed to the cuff. The boy who at seventeen seemed a toothpick with shoulders had evened out nicely.
Patrick ambled over, pulling on a glove. “You two know each other?”
“Earth science. Eleventh grade. I helped him with a term paper,” Karen said.
“Remember those sparkly pink sneakers you used to wear?”
The man behind the cash register pointed out the window. “Folks, you’re up.”
Curt held the door, and as she passed, she glanced sideways at him, curious to examine his middle-aged face and body, but he caught her looking. They both laughed, and she looked away, blushing. At the carts, she saw he had placed her bag next to his. Patrick was left to drive solo. They drove through the crowd of golfers waiting their turn to play.
At the championship tees, the young man whipped his club through the air with blinding speed sending his ball beyond their ability to follow it, yet the lanky Curt outdrove him. Both of their shots landed far down the fairway, in the middle of the short grass. The gallery applauded.
Now it was Karen’s turn. She felt nervous at the prospect of hitting the ball for the first time in months. In fact, the last time she played was over a year ago at Pelican Hill in Newport, and she had been rusty then.
She pulled the rented driver from the bag. Golf was hard enough when you were familiar with your clubs. Playing with a strange set increased the challenge, and here she stood with a dozen men watching.
Waiting for her to fail.
Oh, she knew she shouldn’t think that way, and tried to force positive thoughts. She would not worry about her score. It was a beautiful day and she was here to enjoy the exercise and the company of her partners. The course was beautiful. The Bully Pulpit was laid out in the middle of the North Dakota outback. The steep bluffs and buttes of the Badlands shaped the course. Cottonwoods, willows, and elm trees lined the fairways.
She approached the tee box, trying to ignore the players who awaited their turn to start, but it was a challenge. Karen still felt awkward under the scrutiny of older male players. Things were changing, but Karen had been born into a transitional generation and still remembered the feeling of being unwelcome. She had learned to play in her late thirties, and only because she was tired of being left at the office while the men escaped for an afternoon of corporate golf. At first she held her own with good sportsmanship if not expertise. Later, as her skills improved, she began to enjoy the game for its own sake. Every time she played, she vowed to get out on the course more often, for fun rather than work. Somehow, that never happened.
Now she bent over and stuck a tee in the ground, knowing the men were watching her. If she hit the ball poorly, it would reaffirm their belief that women shouldn’t be taking up space on a golf course. Today the men’s chattering reinforced her insecurity. Where they had been appropriately quiet for Curt and Patrick, they now joked loudly among themselves, ignoring the first rule of golf etiquette. She took a practice swing and tried to focus on the beauty of the day, the birds singing sweetly, and the light breeze riffling the nearby trees.
It didn’t work.
She couldn’t shut out the noise. Were she to hit the ball now, she might shank it out of bounds, justifying their low expectations. Yet with their distracting noise, they would be the cause. The whole scenario was beginning to seriously piss her off.
Karen turned to face the men. With one hand on her driver and the other on her hip, she struck a pose and waited, staring pointedly. The first one to notice shushed another, and one by one, they fell silent. Touching her visor in mock salute, she took a practice swing, lined up her target, and swung.
Crack! She tagged it right on the screws, her spine loose and balance perfect. The ball sailed into the air, drawing left a bit and then arcing back to the right. The men burst into applause and she waved, grinning.
“Beautiful shot,” Curt said as she climbed into the cart. “That went about two-ten.”
“What a relief.” Karen hit her next shot straight down the fairway, and all three of them finished up with a par.
“I thought you said you were rusty,” said Patrick. “Hate to see you when you’re not.”
They bantered easily, returning to the carts. When Curt steered around a corner and slowed to a stop, she drew in a breath. At her feet, the path dropped away to a valley where deep green fairways, mowed in a crisscross pattern, unfurled in front of them. The valley was surrounded by soaring pink and grey rock formations, cut by layers and rising at odd angles.
Curt pointed at the eroded buttes edging the canyon. “That used to be swampland. We’ve found fossils of palm trees and crocodiles in the rocks.”
“We?”
“Me and my students at UND. About twice a month we haul our equipment and sack lunches and go looking for stuff. It’s a lot of fun.”
“I’ll bet.” They sat quietly, the only sound was that of sagebrush rattling in the breeze.
“It’s even more beautiful than I remember,” she said.
After a moment he pressed the pedal to the floor. Karen grabbed the safety grips and held on, the two of them laughing as they sped down the slope toward the second hole. Patrick raced after them.
The next tee box was located on a hilltop outcropping from where they could see all the way to the blue-gray buttes on the western boundary of the state. The men pulled drivers out of their bags and walked toward the championship tees, heads together, talking. Karen stayed behind, enjoying the view and the sensation of the wind rocking the small cart. She was mesmerized by the silence, and the miles of open land in front of her. How different this was from home, with the contiguous cities and suburbs there. Her mother had understood this need to get out and away from everything, to simply listen to the silence. She must have known what Karen was giving up when she moved west, but never tried to change her daughter’s mind.
When Curt returned, he put one arm on the wheel, the other on the seat behind her. “Patrick told me you just lost your mom. I’m sorry. Do you want to talk about it?”
She shook her head. “No, but thanks.”
He released the brake and rolled forward toward her tee box. “I met Pat when my parents died. That was about six years ago.”
“Both of them at once?”
“Mom passed, and Dad declined shortly after that. We had two funerals in six months. Pat and his family sort of adopted me.”
“Do you have siblings?”
“I have a sister who lives near in San Francisco.”
“How did you get through it?”
Curt stopped at the forward tees. “The pain doesn’t go away completely, but it diminishes. Every now and then it hits me hard, but as time passes, it happens less often.”
“Thanks.” She climbed out and pulled her club from the bag. In spite of her blurred vision, she managed to hit a nice long shot right up the middle.
They drove in silence to their shots. Curt climbed out, selected a club, and then leaned back in, one eyebrow raised.
“I’m fine.” She watched him turn and walk toward his shot. He moved easily, his back straight, laughing over some silly-ass joke with Patrick, and she realized she was holding her shoulders up somewhere around her ears. She let go and took a deep breath, watching him follow through with his swing, pivoting at the waist, his shoulders achingly broad.
When it was her turn she grabbed her own club and walked across the thick grass, wondering if grief built up as a person aged, like calcium deposits in a faucet, eventually clogging your pipes and weighing you down until you couldn’t function anymore. Maybe that’s what we die of, she thought. It’s not old age; it’s the accumulation of suffering.
Karen shook off the gloom. Today’s round had been a great distraction. When she smacked her ball and watched it sail through the sky against the backdrop of the Badlands, her heart lifted a little. The physical exercise helped, and she felt pleased at how quickly her game had returned. The men were great company, too. They enjoyed having an audience for their good-natured ribbing, deriding each other’s shots and making fun. When Patrick got a call from his fiancée, Curt teased him about being on a short leash.
“I met Rachel at the university,” Patrick said. “She was Curt’s research
assistant.”
“Do you teach?”
“Mostly geology,” said Curt, “and some life science, and I also do environmental consulting for a couple of oil companies.” He handed her a card.
“Environment and oil companies? Isn’t that a contradiction?”
Curt stepped on the gas. “Well, at Hoffman Environmental–”
“Very clever.”
“It looks good for the oil companies. They’re doing a lot of damage right now in Williston, for example. I can’t undo it, but I try to work with both the farmers and the oil guys. I have better luck with the farmers.” Curt steered the cart down a steep, curving path.
“How do you manage time to teach and do consulting?”
“Rachel teaches a lot of my classes, and between semesters I can get away. I sometimes travel on assignment during the winter. Go someplace warm.”
“Do you travel alone?”
He grinned and bumped her playfully with his shoulder. “Yep. I’m divorced. You?”
She shrugged, but her face burned.
“I saw the ring,” he said.
“It’s a fossil. From the Paleocene.”
Curt smiled at her until she couldn’t help but smile back. What was the harm? It felt good to flirt, even if she was seriously out of practice and felt like a total dork.
For the rest of the round, they found plenty of excuses to nudge and touch each other. When he accelerated along the curving path, forcing their bodies together, they laughed like teenagers. Halfway through the course, he parked the cart, his arm on the back of her seat as they waited for Patrick to hit his ball out of the rough.
When Curt looked away, Karen studied him. She liked watching his expressions, his concentration when sizing up a shot, or the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. She thought she saw darkness behind his eyes when the laughter stopped, but it was probably her own need that made him look that way.
Hunger. As in lust. What a lovely, unfamiliar feeling. Yes, she wore a ring, but now she wondered why she bothered.
As she climbed a knoll toward the tee box, she bent down to stick the tee in the ground, aware of the fit of her clothing and the appeal of her long shapely legs. She knew that Curt was looking, and she liked it. She straightened up, took a practice swing and landed the ball right in the middle of the fairway, just as she had all day long.
Dakota Blues Box Set Page 14