by Celia Jerome
Self-encouragement aside, my hands still felt clammy when I got out of the car, so I wiped them on my shorts, only to notice too late that the shrink was watching from his front porch.
The porch wrapped around a modest house that overlooked a pond. Tranquil was the word that entered my mind. No street noises, no traffic, no busybody neighbors. The doctor came down from the porch to meet me. He was about my grandmother’s age, I guessed, late seventies, but seemed healthy except for the cane in his hand. He had silver hair, light blue eyes that twinkled behind gold-rimmed glasses, and a wide smile. He wore khakis and a tan polo shirt with an Izod alligator embroidered on the chest. Uh-oh. Not for the first time I wished my father’s premonitions were a tad more specific.
I couldn’t see the danger in this kindly seeming gentleman. Everyone trusted him. Everyone said he could help. It was my mother who always told me to judge a man by how he treated a dog, so I asked if it was okay for me to bring Red inside. Doctor Lassiter said, “Of course,” and instantly went to fill a small bowl with water. He got extra points for asking Red if he’d like an ice cube in his drink.
I followed him farther into the window-filled house to a comfortable living area with leather sofas, and a tray of iced tea and ladyfingers waiting on a coffee table.
He waited for me to sit, then took the seat opposite. I couldn’t help myself: He was a shrink, therefore I was nervous. My hand even trembled when I poured both of us glasses of the mint tea.
“It’s sad, isn’t it,” he said, “how we cannot trust each other these days? Sometimes I wish we could see into each other’s minds and know what we’re thinking. We can’t, of course, although I suppose somewhere in Paumanok Harbor someone can.”
I liked his voice, the reassuring way he smiled at me, as if he were genuinely happy to be meeting me. As if my nervousness was nothing out of the ordinary.
I ate a ladyfinger while he asked me about some of his old friends. He kept in touch with a few, but had lost track of others. Then we talked about my books, which he thought was a great accomplishment. Three ladyfingers later, with a morsel to Little Red, we got to the trouble in Paumanok Harbor. Doc—we were already on familiar terms—had heard some of the problem, but he wanted to hear my version, because I was closest to the center. He nodded and made encouraging noises and tsked when I told him about the Danvers incident and the cue sticks.
He loved my idea about putting up the posters infused with good intentions. “I bet it’s working already.”
“I think it might be, but it’s a temporary Band-Aid at best. We have to find the young horse.”
“The one you dreamed about?”
“I dreamed I was him.”
“The night horses are strong projectors.”
“Especially of their distress.” I confessed about my fears and my worries that I couldn’t help the colt, couldn’t help the town. “Somehow they made me responsible. I don’t know if I am or not, but they all think I can fix it.”
“I know you can, or you wouldn’t have come to me. You need help with the people, so you can concentrate on the horses.”
“Exactly.”
“It’s a big burden.”
“Huge.”
“And getting lost in the colt’s nightmare is terrifying, while the people you count on for support aren’t there for you.”
I sighed. “You are very understanding.”
“And you are just what Paumanok Harbor needs.” He took my hand, and I could feel his approval and his caring seep right through me. “You have the power and the strength, Willow Tate, and I am so pleased I got to meet you.”
Damn, he was good. A touch and a smile, and I felt stronger and braver and not so alone. Hell, I was in love. I’d found what I hadn’t known I was missing all these years: a godfather. Not a Don Corleone, ruthless mob boss, but a benevolent elder statesman with plenty of ruth. He was honest, and honestly pleased to be my friend. I felt like a kid whose grandfather handed out silver dollars for no reason other than affection and approval.
Doctor Lassiter was my own shiny silver dollar.
On the way back to the Harbor, he even taught me another horse song. An absurd ditty about a horse, of course, named Mr. Ed. I told him about Big Eddie and sang him “Wild Horses,” off-key. We laughed and sang and pointed out pretty vistas, a special fish-shaped mailbox, a classic turquoise T-bird. Doc was happy to be going back to Paumanok Harbor; Red was happy on his lap so he could see out; I was happy I had someone on my side.
Doc explained that he used to visit his old friends until a stroke left his right leg weak, so he couldn’t trust his driving. He was looking forward to seeing my grandmother again. “Is she still as good a cook?”
“Better, but wait until you taste my cousin Susan’s cooking. She uses some of Grandma’s recipes and a lot of her fresh ingredients.”
“And a few incantations, too?”
We laughed again about Grandma’s supposed sorcery, then I tried to bring him up to date on births and weddings and divorces, who moved away, whose children accepted the Royce Institute’s free college tuition in England.
Doc knew Grant’s father. All he said was that the earl was a true gentleman who handled his responsibilities well. His son, Doc heard, was just as fine a man. I didn’t say anything.
When we reached Paumanok Harbor and drove down Main Street, you’d think the circus had come to town. Everyone wanted to greet Doc, welcome him home, beg him to move back here, shake his hand. That was it, I realized. Not his caring, his sensitivity and understanding and good humor. His touch was the secret. That was why I couldn’t just call him on the phone.
So many people filled the street, I had to pull over and park. Soon a whole crowd surrounded the Outback, everyone wanting a hug, a handshake, one of his big grins.
Which was fine for the town, but Doc looked weary. He wasn’t a young man, and he wasn’t used to the commotion. I made some excuse about having to get him to my grandmother’s before she called out the cops. Someone asked if he could come back downtown later, and someone else suggested a block party on the commons. The volunteer firemen shouted that they’d make hot dogs. The deli had a freezer full of ice cream. Three high school kids offered to set up a sound system so that the school jazz band could play. Two people had fireworks left over from the Fourth of July, but don’t tell the chief. Everyone else was to bring a six-pack, a salad, a batch of brownies.
Doc was touched. He took his glasses off to wipe his eyes. “Oh, it’s so good to be here among friends, isn’t it?”
It was. I smiled. My new godfather had a mob of his own.
CHAPTER 11
GRANDMA EVE GAVE DOC THE WARMEST welcome of all, and he gave her the brightest smile. I wondered how good friends they were, or could be later. How about that, me matchmaking for the old witch now? It seemed natural, since Doc had to be a wizard to lift that pall of woe from everyone in town with just a handshake.
I left them to check my phone messages at Mom’s house.
Dad left a new alert: a banker. Cave, alligator, banker. Two were impossible, one unlikely knowing Mr. Whitside at the bank. Dad’s message said nothing about more horses unless you consider his comment about my mother: “I wish the old nag would go home already.”
The second message asked how much of a reward was being offered. It was odd ’cause I’d left my cell phone number on the posters, not my mother’s, but I guess the word was out about me. I didn’t recognize the male voice, and the return number was a cell phone, no caller ID. I couldn’t call back, but I could curse.
My editor wanted to know how soon before I had cover art for my new book for him to work with. Someone else wanted to sell my mother a new cable TV plan. A Police Benevolent Society I never heard of wanted a donation, via credit card over the phone. Right.
Grant’s message was garbled. He was at an airport, found help, we’d talk soon. Yeah, if he didn’t freeze to death on a mountain peak.
That was it. No miracle message sayi
ng someone found a pony trapped in their old outhouse, come and get him. No report of a neighbor suddenly getting a hay delivery. I tried to convince myself that it was early days yet, but I knew it was early for the posters, not for the colt.
I called Susan on her cell to let her know about the party. She’d already heard and was cooking up vats of clam chowder to bring. Her uncle decided to close the Breakaway Restaurant for the night because no one was going to pay for dinner when they could get it free on the commons. I congratulated myself on not asking Susan where she’d spent the night, or the morning, just said I’d see her later.
I took the big dogs for a walk, Little Red for a carry. He’d have to stay by himself at the house later. He’d be overwhelmed and underfoot at the block party, which was dangerous for him and everybody else’s ankles.
Then I made some refrigerator slice-and-bake chocolate chip cookies to bring. I only ate five of them, testing for quality. They were so good I kept half a dozen before wrapping the rest for the party.
I showered, put on my favorite flowery sundress and strappy heeled sandals. I even blow-dried my hair. Funny to be dressing for a man old enough to be my grandfather, but I sure as hell didn’t put on mascara for Baitfish Barry.
Grandma and Doc were going in her car so they could leave early. Even if the party was in Doc’s honor, he wasn’t strong enough for a long night’s celebrating. From the militant look in Grandma’s eyes, I figured she’d have him back in fighting shape before he left. I didn’t think he’d mind some home cooking and coddling. I followed in Mom’s Outback, and ate two more cookies.
The town square was already crowded when we got there. Plank tables lined one end, quickly filling with potluck offerings. The fire department had two big grills going, and Susan was ladling out chowder. People carried blankets and babies, and I set up the beach chairs I’d brought for Grandma and Doc. Pretty soon two lines formed, one for the food, the other to greet Doc, like excited children waiting to talk to Santa. Even people who’d seen him earlier wanted to shake his hand, introduce him to their kids, tell him how happy they were to see him.
They were happier when they went back to their blankets and beer.
I was too full of cookies to eat much.
Some of “them”—as in “us vs. them,” Paumanok Harbor residents who didn’t have the Paumanok Harbor propensities—looked a little confused at all the hubbub over a retired shrink. They enjoyed the music and the small town camaraderie anyway. Dante and Louisa Rivera waved to me as they herded their children back toward the parking lots, some of the first to leave. The grocery store owners were noticeably absent. They hadn’t sent any food either. And they wondered why the locals shopped elsewhere whenever they could.
When the sun lowered, volunteers started to pack up the leftover food, fill the trash bags, and fold the tables. Despite the feeling of well-being, no one much wanted to be on the road after dark. No one wanted to chance seeing the mares. Besides, Uncle Henry had confiscated the fireworks before some idiot blew off his fingers or set the downtown on fire, so there was no reason to linger. Doc was yawning.
The noise level was still high for the cleanup and the good-byes, with a few latecomers still shaking his hand. The high school jazz band had been replaced by a loud rock trio that played for local weddings and cocktail parties. They’d go on as long as anyone was listening.
The music stopped mid-note. The chatter stopped. The cursing from the firemen’s truck stopped. Even the whining from kids who didn’t want to leave stopped. Everyone turned to stare up the street, where a man on a white horse rode toward the commons.
“It’s one of them,” a woman cried, turning her head into her husband’s chest.
“Nah, the mares wouldn’t let anyone put a saddle on them.”
“Maybe he got lost on his way to the dude ranch at Montauk.”
“Maybe it’s the horse whisperer we need.”
“Maybe I’ve died and gone to heaven,” Susan said from beside me as we watched the horse and rider come closer.
Elegant white high-stepping horse, effortless straight-backed rider, orange-and-pink setting sun. Magnificent, and the horse and the sun were nice, too.
Another horse and rider came out of the shadows behind the first pair. This horse was brown and white. A pinto? A paint? I wasn’t up on horse jargon. The second rider was smaller, hatless, with dark hair in a braid down his shoulder, tied with a rawhide thong and a feather. He kept his distance from the grass commons while the first man dismounted at the edge and led his horse forward.
The idiots from the party band swung into “Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys” while the obvious head honcho strode forward. He took long steps, but with an almost bow-legged stride.
“Now that’s a real cowboy,” someone near me said. “You can tell he’s spent his life on a horse.”
A woman answered: “Either that or he’s got more between his legs than you’ve got between your ears.”
The laughter was a little subdued. We all knew this guy was special, and we all knew we needed him.
Then one of the local studs said he thought that walk looked gay.
“Trust me,” Micky from the fire department said with a sigh of regret, “that dude’s not gay.”
With the cowboy’s hat shielding his face and the dying light, it was hard to judge his age or his coloring or his looks, only his height—impressive—and his build—kind of lanky but solid. He wore a cream-colored Stetson, a faded blue chambray shirt and jeans tucked into high cowboy boots. Mostly what he wore was confidence, mixed, I thought, with a little arrogance. Or maybe that was my jealousy talking; I could never have sauntered so calmly into a crowd of staring strangers, not even with a prancing horse at my side.
When he got nearer, Susan started singing Big Eddie’s song about saving a horse, riding a cowboy. “Hush,” I snapped at her. “He’s old enough to be your father.”
“So?”
This close, I saw the weather and the years etched on his face. He was about forty, I guessed. A crooked nose kept him from being handsome, though he did have a firm chin, high cheekbones, and not an ounce of extra flesh that I could see.
“Your father never looked like that,” Susan’s mother said.
Grandma murmured, “Oh, my,” and Reverend Shankman’s wife added, “Amen to that.”
The cowboy headed straight for me. I looked to either side to be certain he wasn’t looking for Uncle Henry, but the police chief wasn’t that close.
The crowd parted. They might have disappeared, for all I knew. I didn’t notice when the band stopped playing. I watched the man. He watched me, then stopped and touched the brim of his hat.
“I reckon you’re Miss Willow Tate, ma’am. I’m Tyler Farraday. Folks call me Ty.” He jerked a thumb back toward the other rider. “That’s Connor Redstone, the Condor.”
The Condor? The younger man nodded his head from the pinto’s back, still keeping his distance. I nodded back.
Mr. Farraday reclaimed my attention. “His lordship sent us to y’all.”
“Grant?”
“Brit with a poker up his—” He looked over my shoulder to Grandma Eve. “Sorry, ma’am.” He turned his attention back to me. “With English reserve, I reckon you call it.”
“You know Grant? Lord Grantham, that is?”
“We shared some classes a few years back.” He didn’t sound as if they shared a friendship. But I should have known there was a Royce Institute connection. Or the Department of Unexplained Events. I didn’t think I should ask which or what classes he’d taken, not in front of half the village. “Well, thank you for coming, Mr., ah, Farraday.”
“My pleasure, ma’am. His nibs said if I wanted to see some rare magic I had to haul my ass—sorry, ma’am—that is, hightail it north.”
“The white night ma—” I started.
“Then he said that if I laid a hand on her, he’d have my guts for guitar strings.”
Me? Rare magic? T
hank goodness the light was fading so the stranger couldn’t see me blush. He smiled as if he knew I was rattled, though. The smile started at one corner of his mouth and then widened, showing even white teeth. I heard Susan sigh.
Grandma, of all people, announced, “Agent Grant has no claim on my granddaughter. Not since yesterday, anyway.”
“Oh, I wasn’t worried, ma’am. The jackass’s threats just added to the challenge. A cowboy never backs down from a dare.”
Had I become invisible while Farraday planned my seduction and Grandma planned my wedding? I cleared my throat. “Mr. Farraday, I’d like to introduce you to my grandmother, Eve Garland.”
He tipped his hat. “I’ve heard of your skills, ma’am.”
“Our guest, Doctor Lassiter.”
“Glad to meet you, sir. I’ve heard a great deal about you also. All good.”
Doc and Grandma both looked pleased . . . because some dusty old cowboy had heard of them?
I quickly pointed to my aunt, uncle, cousin, and Chief Henry, who’d joined us. “You can meet everyone else tomorrow.”
After nodding to acknowledge my introductions, Farraday turned to his horse, whose reins he held loosely in one hand. “This is Paloma Blanca, the White Dove. Bow to the lady, Pal.”
The horse bent one foreleg and leaned forward, muscles gleaming and moving smoothly until her head nearly touched the grass, the long white mane flowing over her shoulder.
A little girl—Janie’s niece Ronnie, I thought—clapped. The band’s drummer played a fanfare.
“Where did you say you came from, Mr. Farraday?” Uncle Henry asked. “You got here awfully fast.”
“We were performing in Atlantic City.” He looked at me. “Trick riding.”
My heart sank. A rhinestone cowboy, just what we needed.
“Can we see?” Ronnie begged.
“Not tonight, sweet pea. Pal’s tired and we still have to find our bunks.”
Before I could send him to one of the stables in Montauk—or back to Atlantic City—he said arrangements had been made for them to stay at a place called Rosehill. The Royce Institute, on Grant’s recommendation, had bought the Paumanok Harbor estate as a conference center and outreach extension for the university. The renovations hadn’t been done yet or any bureaucrats moved in, waiting on permits that Martha at the real estate office was working on, so there was plenty of space. My mother’s widowed cousin Lily was housekeeper there and acting as caretaker. I could only imagine what care she’d take of the snake-oil salesman.