“I wanted to, but… I've been busy.”
“Do you want to tell me about all that, or are you too tired?” It had been a five-hour flight, and then a three-hour drive. By California time it was only eight thirty, but by Sam's time, in New York, it was eleven thirty at night. But she wasn't even tired, she was just exhilarated to see her old friend.
“I'm not too tired … I just don't know where to start.”
“Then start with the hot chocolate. Then the sandwiches. Then talk.” The two women exchanged another smile, and then Sam couldn't resist reaching out to her again, and Caroline gave her a warm hug. “Do you know how good it is to have you back here?”
“Only half as good as it is to be back.” She took a big bite out of a sandwich and then sat back against the couch with a broad grin. “Bill says you have a new Thoroughbred. Is he a beauty?”
“Oh, God, Sam, he sure is!” And then she laughed again. “Better even than my green boots.” She looked down with amusement and then back at Sam with a sparkle in her eye. “He's a stallion and so full of fire that even I can hardly ride him. Bill is terrified I'll kill myself riding him, but when I saw him, I really couldn't resist. The son of one of the other ranchers near here bought him in Kentucky, and then needed some quick money so he sold him to me. It's almost a sin to ride him just for pleasure, but I can't help it. I just have to. I don't give a damn if I'm an arthritic old woman, or what kind of fool anyone thinks me, he is the one horse in my lifetime I want to ride till I die.” Sam flinched again at the mention of death and old age. In that sense both she and Bill had changed since the last time. But after all, they were both in their sixties now, maybe it was indeed a preoccupation that was normal for their age. Nonetheless it was impossible to think of either of them as “old people,” they were too handsome, too active, too powerful, too busy. And yet, it was obviously an image of themselves that they both now had. “What's his name?”
Caroline laughed out loud and then stood up and walked toward the fire, holding out her hands for warmth. “Black Beauty, of course.” She turned toward Samantha, her exquisite features delicately lit by the fire until she looked almost like a carefully etched cameo, or a porcelain figure.
“Has anyone told you lately how beautiful you are, Aunt Caro?” It was the name Barbara had used for her, and this time there were tears in Caroline's eyes.
“Bless you, Sam. You're as blind as ever.”
“The hell I am.” She grinned and nibbled at the rest of her sandwich before taking a sip of the hot chocolate that Caroline had poured from a Thermos jug. She was the same gracious hostess she always had been in the days when Samantha had first visited the ranch and all the way back to her legendary parties in Hollywood in 1933. “So.” Sam's face sobered slowly. “I guess you want to know about John. I don't suppose there's much more than what I told you the other night on the phone. He had an affair, he got her pregnant, he left me, they got married, and now they await the birth of their first child.”
“You say it so succinctly.” Then after a moment, “Do you hate him?”
“Sometimes.” Sam's voice fell to a whisper. “Most of the time I just miss him and wonder if he's all right. I wonder if she knows that he's allergic to wool socks. I wonder if anyone buys him the kind of coffee he loves, if he's sick or healthy or happy or freaked out, if he remembers to take his asthma medicine on a trip … if —if he's sorry—” She stopped and then looked back at Caroline still standing by the fire. “That sounds crazy, doesn't it? I mean, the man walked out on me, cheated on me, dumped me, and now he doesn't even call to find out how I am, and I worry that his feet itch because his wife might make a mistake and buy him wool socks. Is that crazy?” She laughed but it was suddenly a half sob. “Isn't it?” And then she squeezed her eyes shut again. Slowly she shook her head, keeping her eyes tightly closed, as though by closing them she wouldn't see the images that had danced in her head for so long. “God, Caro, it was so awful and so public.” She opened her eyes. “Didn't you read about it?”
“I did. Once. But it was just some vague gossip that you two were separated. I hoped that it was a lie, just some stupid publicity to make him seem more appealing. I know how those things are, how they get planted and don't mean a thing.”
“This one did. You haven't watched them together on the broadcast?”
“I never did.”
“Neither did I.” Samantha looked rueful. “But I do now.”
“You ought to stop that.”
Samantha nodded silently. “Yeah, I will. There's a lot I have to stop. I guess that's why I came out here.”
“And your job?”
“I don't know. I've somehow managed to keep it through all this. At least I think so if they meant what they said when I left. But to tell you the truth, I don't know how I did it. I was a zombie every waking minute I was in the office.” She dropped her face into her hands with a soft sigh. “Maybe it's just as well that I left.” She felt Caroline's hand on her shoulder a moment later.
“I think so too, Sam. Maybe the ranch will give you time to heal, and time to collect your thoughts. You've been through a tremendous trauma. I know, I went through the same thing when Arthur died. I didn't think I'd live through it. I thought it would kill me too. That's not quite the same thing as what happened to you, but in its own way death is a rejection.” There was a vague frown in her eyes as she said the last words, but it rapidly flitted away as she smiled again at Sam. “But your life isn't over, you know, Samantha. In some ways perhaps it's just begun. How old are you now?”
Samantha groaned. “Thirty.” She made it sound like eighty and Caroline laughed, a delicate, silvery sound in the pretty room.
“You expect me to be impressed?”
“Sympathetic.” Samantha spoke with a grin.
“At my age, darling, that's too much to ask. Envious, perhaps, that would be more like it. Thirty.” She looked dreamily into the fire. “What I wouldn't give for that!”
“What I wouldn't give to look like you do now, age be damned!”
“Flattery, flattery …” But it was obvious that it pleased her, and then she turned to Sam again with a question in her eyes. “Have you been out with anyone else since it happened?” Sam rapidly shook her head. “Why not?”
“Two very good reasons. No one decent has asked me, and I don't want to. In my heart I'm still married to John Taylor. If I went out with another man, it would feel like cheating. I'm just not ready. And you know?” She looked somberly at the older woman. “I don't think I ever will be. I just don't want to. It's as though part of me died when he walked out that door. I don't care anymore. I don't give a damn if nobody ever loves me again. I don't feel lovable. I don't want to be loved … except by him.”
“Well, you'd better do something about that, Samantha.” Caroline eyed her with gentle disapproval. “You've got to be realistic, and you can't wander around like a mobile dead body. You have to live. That's what they told me, you know. But it does take time. I know that. You've had how many months now?”
“Three and a half.”
“Give it another six.” She smiled softly. “And if you're not madly in love by then, we'll do something radical.”
“Like what? A lobotomy?” Samantha looked serious as she took another sip of hot chocolate.
“We'll think of something, but I don't really think we'll have to.”
“Hopefully by then I'll be back on Madison Avenue, killing myself with a fifteen-hour workday.”
“Is that what you want?” Caroline looked at her sadly.
“I don't know. I used to think so. But now that I look back at it, maybe I was in competition with John. Still, I have a good shot at becoming creative director of the agency, and there's a lot of ego involved in that.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
Samantha nodded and smiled. “I love it.” And then she cocked her head to one side with a shy smile. “But there have been times when I've liked this kind of life more. Caro—�
� She hesitated, but only for an instant. “Can I ride Black Beauty tomorrow?” She suddenly looked like a very young girl.
But Caroline slowly shook her head. “Not yet, Sam. You ought to warm up on one of the others. How long has it been since you've been on a horse?”
“About two years.”
“Then you don't want to start with Black Beauty.”
“Why not?”
“Because you'll land on your fanny halfway out the gate. He's not easy to ride, Sam.” And then more gently, “Not even for you, I suspect.” Caroline had seen years before that Samantha was a splendid rider, but she knew only too well that Black Beauty was an unusual horse. He even gave her a hard time, and he terrified the foreman and most of the ranch hands. “Give it time. I promise I'll let you ride him when you feel sure of yourself again.” They both knew that that wouldn't take Sam long. She had spent too much time with horses to feel rusty for long. “You know, I was hoping you wanted to do some serious riding. Bill and I have spent the last three weeks tearing our hair out over the ranch papers. We have a lot of things to tie up at year end. As I told you, we're two men short on top of it. We could use an extra hand. If you want to, you could ride with the men.”
“Are you serious?” Samantha looked stunned. “You'd let me do that?” Her big blue eyes lit up by the light of the fire, her golden hair was alight with its glow.
“Of course I would let you. In fact I'd be grateful to you.” And then, with a gentle smile, “You're as competent as they are. Or you will be again after a day or two. Think you'd survive starting out with a full day in the saddle?”
“Hell yes!” Samantha grinned, and Caroline walked toward her with a look of affection in her eyes.
“Then get to bed, young lady. You have to be up at four o'clock. In fact I was so sure you'd say yes, I told Tate Jordan to expect you. Bill and I have to go into town.” She looked at her watch then. It was a simple watch that Bill King had given her that Christmas. Once, thirty years earlier, the only watches that had graced her wrist had been Swiss and encrusted with diamonds. There had been one in particular that her husband had bought her in Paris, at Cartier's. But she had long since put it away. Sometimes she found it hard to believe that she had ever had another life. She stood looking at Samantha now with a warm smile and gave the younger woman another firm hug. “Welcome home, darling.”
“Thank you, Aunt Caro.”
With that, the two women walked slowly down the hall. Caroline knew that the fire was safely contained in the fireplace, and she left the tray for the Mexican woman who arrived every morning to work on the ranch and clean her house.
She walked Samantha to her bedroom doorway and watched as Sam eyed the room with delight. It was a different room than she had shared with Barbara during the summers. Caroline had long since turned that room into a study. It had pained her too much to remember the young girl who had visited and lived there, growing into young womanhood in the pink frills of that room. This room was entirely different. It was equally feminine, but stark white. Everything was white eyelet and wonderfully frilly, from the canopied bed to the handmade cushions to the wicker chaise longue. Only the wonderful patchwork bedspread folded back on the bed introduced some colors, and here were a riot of bright colors, reds and blues and yellows, all carefully worked in a log-cabin design. There were matching cushions on two comfortable wicker chairs near the fireplace. And on the large wicker desk rested a huge vase of multicolored flowers. And through her windows Samantha would have a perfect view of the hills. It was a room in which one would want to spend hours, if not years. The touches of Hollywood hadn't entirely left Caro. She still decorated every room with the special touches and infinite good taste that had characterized her Hollywood years.
“It sure doesn't look like the bedroom of a ranch hand.” Sam chuckled as she sat down on the edge of the bed and looked around.
“Not exactly. But if you'd prefer, I'm sure one of the men would be happy to share a bunk in one of the cottages.” They grinned at each other, kissed again, and then Caroline softly closed the door. Samantha could hear the heels of the cowboy boots echo on the hardwood floors all the way down the hallway to the other side of the house where Caro had her own apartment: a large bedroom, a small den, a dressing room, a bathroom, all done in bright colors not unlike the quilted bedspread, and here she still kept a few pieces of long-ago-collected art. There was one very fine Impressionist painting. The others were all pieces she had bought in Europe, some with her husband, some after she lost him, but they were the only treasures she still kept from her old life.
In her own room Sam slowly unpacked her suitcase, feeling as though in the space of a few hours she had entered an entirely different world. Could she really have been in New York that morning, sleeping in her own apartment, talking to Harvey Maxwell in his office? Could one come this far in so short a time? It seemed more than unlikely as she listened to the horses neighing softly in the distance and felt the winter wind brush her face as she opened the window and looked out. Outside there was a landscape lit by the moon beneath a sky brilliant with every star in the heavens. It was a miraculous scene and she was more than glad to be there, glad to be visiting Caroline, and glad to be away from New York. Here she would find herself again. She knew as she stood there that she had done the right thing. And as she turned away from the window, somewhere in the distance she heard a door close near Caroline's bedroom, and for a moment she wondered, as she and Barbie had so long ago, if it was Bill King.
The alarm went off next to Sam's bedside at four the next morning. She groaned as she heard it and then reached out a hand to turn it off. But as she did she felt the breeze on her fingers and suddenly realized that something was different. She opened one eye, looked around, and realized that she wasn't at home. Not in her own at least. She looked around once more, in total confusion, and then up at the frilly white canopy above her, and suddenly she knew. She was at Caroline Lord's ranch, in California, and that morning she was going to ride with the other hands. The idea sounded a little less appealing than it had the previous evening. The prospect of leaping out of bed, taking a shower, and actually leaving the building before she even had breakfast, and then, after being faced with a plate heaped high with sausages and eggs, getting on a horse, all probably before six A.M., sounded exceedingly grim. But this was what she had come west for, and as she considered sleeping in for the first morning, she knew she couldn't do it. Not if she was going to make friends with the men. Besides, letting her ride with the men was a privilege Caroline had given her. And if she was to be respected by the ranch hands, she would have to show herself as tough, as willing, as knowing, as good with a horse, as ready to ride, as any of them.
She wasn't greatly encouraged when she peered into the darkness after her shower and saw that the countryside was shrouded in a thin veil of rain. She climbed into an old pair of blue jeans, a white button-down shirt, a thick black turtleneck sweater, wool socks, and her own riding boots that she had worn religiously when she rode in the East. They were beautiful custom-made boots from Miller's and not at all the kind of thing to wear on a ranch, but she figured that she could buy a pair of cowboy boots in town that weekend, and in the meantime she'd have to make do. She pulled her long blond hair into a tight knot at the nape of her neck, splashed some more cold water on her face, grabbed an old blue down parka that she had worn skiing and a pair of brown leather gloves. Gone were the days of Halston, Bill Blass, and Norell. But what she was going to be doing was no longer that kind of work. Elegance didn't matter, only warmth and comfort. And she knew that when she returned to her room that evening she would do so with every muscle shrieking, every joint aching, her seat numb, her knees raw, her eyes blurred from the wind, her face tingling, her hands clenched in the position she would use all day with the reins. Knowing that was certainly no incentive to get up. She slipped out of her room into the hall and noticed the narrow sliver of light under Caroline's door. She thought of saying good mo
rning, but it seemed an ungodly hour to disturb anyone, and on tiptoe Sam continued toward the front door. She closed it softly behind her, pulling the hood of her parka over her head and pulling the string tight in the soft rain, her boots making little squishing noises in the puddles that had already formed on the ground.
It seemed to take forever to reach the main hall where the men ate and where some of them gathered at night to play pool or cards. It was a large, freshly painted, rambling building, with beamed ceilings, a brick fireplace tall enough to stand in, a record player, a TV, several game tables, and a handsome antique pool table. As Sam had always known her to, Caroline Lord treated her men well.
For just an instant as Sam reached the doorway, her hand froze on the knob and she suddenly wondered what she had done. She was about to invade the all-male sanctum, share their meals with them in the morning and at lunchtime, work beside them, and pretend to be one of them. What would they think of the intrusion? Suddenly Samantha's knees trembled as she wondered if Caroline or Bill had warned them, and she stood there almost too terrified to go inside. As she stood there in the rain, hesitating, with her hand on the doorknob, a voice just behind her muttered, “Come on, dammit, man, it's cold.” She wheeled around, startled at the voice she hadn't expected, and found herself face to face with a stocky man with dark brown hair and dark eyes, of approximately her own height and age. He looked as surprised as she did, and then with a rapid hand to his mouth at the error, his face broke into a broad grin. “You're Miss Caroline's friend, aren't you?” She nodded speechlessly, attempting to smile. “Sorry … but could you open the door anyway? It is cold!”
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