Heart to Heart

by Meline Nadeau

  At thirty-five, it would be fair to say that Jane was beautiful, a woman whose youthful prettiness had blossomed into serious appeal. She seldom attended to her looks, however, other than to appear clean — a challenge in her line of work. She had classic bones, full lips, deep, serious blue eyes that penetrated in their gaze above a neat, straight nose. Her cheeks glowed golden russet from the sun and the outdoors. Her color rose with her emotions, and she often blushed and brightened while she spoke of anything that mattered. She was tall, slim, and what the old horsemen called, “on the muscle.” She kept her strawberry blond hair short in a boyish cut, as it was easiest to manage and clothed herself daily in jeans or khakis, which were oversized so that in very cold weather she’d be able to fit thermals underneath. And when she rode or gave lessons, she wore britches and boots. Her best friend Abby often shook her head at Jane and called her choice of clothing “man repellant.”

  In work boots with a long-sleeve tee and a flannel thrown on top, her dirty baseball cap defending her as best it could against the lowering sun, she felt as unglamorous as a girl who spent much of her day ankle deep in horse poop could feel. When the tractor failed for the seventh time, she slumped over the wheel, which gave her an opportunity to notice just how much manure clung to her boots. She lifted her face to the sun and felt its warmth even as the unseasonably cool September breezes teased her skin into goose bumps.

  Jane was hopeful, for what, she wasn’t always exactly sure. But hope undefined was her great gift. For despite the incessant calling of the sirens of despair, which she heard all too well and clearly, she had never given up, never let the snow fully cloud her nature. The sun was getting low. Jane would have to leave the tractor out and get the horses in for the night. She patted the John Deere and said, “I know, buddy. You’ll feel better in the morning.” “Now, why couldn’t Mark Hannon see that,” she thought as she jumped off the tractor step.

  When she had filled the last of the water buckets, she stood alone in the quiet of the barn and listened to the horses feed. The muffled swish of hay and the sounds of chewing and snorting, and the sweet smell of cedar shavings, straw, and fresh manure soothed her. It was the most perfect time for Jane. The sun was nearly gone, just a few passionate streaks of red left at the horizon, and the horses safely stabled for the night.

  She made a mental note to talk to the New Jersey extension service about red clover. It caused the horses to incessantly drool harmless, but disgusting slobber — so that they looked alien-possessed. She’d arrived at the farm during slobber season, and hoped to avoid it next summer.

  It was a far cry from her urbane days in college academia. She’d loved teaching, but hated publishing and, frankly, she wasn’t overly fond of the majority of her colleagues. Never had she met such a congregation of self-involved, pretentious, gobbledygook-speaking, nail biting, humorless misfits — who didn’t have the sense to fold their hands and sit quietly, but had instead to be full of passionate intensity. In the beginning of her career, she thought she would be making a difference introducing young minds to great literature. But she became disenchanted. The literature she thought was great had become passé. And the literature her colleagues admired was, in her opinion, unreadable.

  In the end, she feared she’d become as moldy as the department’s old guard — Stewart Parless, for example, who haunted the ivy halls with ivy of his own growing in lush abundance from his ears. Or the yeasty remains of Andrew McKayne, who may have been brilliant in his day, but had become incoherent and dissipated, and never failed to offend any woman within earshot. His jacket was untouchable, bearing the skid marks of museum-quality jelly doughnut smears and coffee spills. “Give me slobber, anytime,” thought Jane.

  She longed to do something brave and different, and very much in keeping with her childhood bliss. After her father died, her mother worked double shifts to keep a roof over her and her brothers’ heads. Jane was free to pretty much do as she pleased, young as she was, and that meant hanging out with the horses on the farm where her parents rented their house. At eleven, she learned to muck out, groom, and tack up. She threw saddles on horses whose withers were above her head. She tightened girths and held horses for other children as they mounted. She made herself useful in a hundred ways, and in exchange she was given riding lessons. Perhaps if her father had lived, he’d have paid for the lessons. But probably not, they were poor then, too. Her mother had told her often that she weighed the relief she felt that she knew where Jane was against the dangers of her hobby. In her exhaustion, relief won out.

  Gray Goose, the boss mare and a wise old horse in her own right, stomped a foot and hung her head over the stall door. She seemed to size up Jane smartly, her good, honest eyes beckoning Jane nearer to stroke her head and neck. Jane listened to the horses in perfect peace for a while longer as they went about the business of merely being. How calm they were. How safe they felt. She could have stood there for hours on end, but she still had a lot to accomplish. “No rest for the weary — or is it the wicked?” she muttered to herself.

  She cleaned the tack from the day’s lessons, listened to messages, swept the barn, checked the horses once more for hay, and topped off their water buckets. Then she went to the house and fixed herself some soup and toast. Tomorrow was a big day: she’d organize the farrier and the vet, give her lessons, get the young horses going, and hope the old John Deere would start.

  Afterward, she was to meet with the Hannons and their son, Mark, for dinner.

  Chapter Two

  Nora Hannon was a smart, trim woman in her sixties, with thick white “angel” hair. She had always wanted a large family, but no other children had followed Mark. When she and her husband, Robert, bought Hannon Farm, Mark was already grown into a young man. So Nora created a riding academy that welcomed children from all backgrounds to her farm. They were the children of her heart.

  Jane had come for her interview for the stable manager position on a hot August afternoon. They met in Nora’s “office,” a spacious parlor in the house, the imposing structure in which the Hannon family lived. There they went over Jane’s resume and application and why she wanted to take on such a physically demanding job. Jane wanted to feel herself pressed again, she explained. She was fit and the work had anchored her and given her a sense of purpose and security from childhood through her undergraduate years. “Working with horses made me feel stable, as it were,” she laughed shyly, “I’d like to feel that way again.”

  For the self-conscious pun alone, Nora hired her on the spot. Jane was to have complete managerial say over daily operations, and Mark would be on board to help her with any cost-related issues. In Jane, Nora sensed a passion for the farm equal to her own. For despite her great wealth, Nora loved the work. “You are always budgeted to hire whatever professionals you need. Please don’t think you have to do all the mucking yourself — it’s ridiculous,” she had insisted, even though Nora mucked out daily and knew Jane would, too. “Use some of the men, Jane. God knows, we’ve got plenty of them hanging around the place — and believe me, they’re well paid.”

  Nora saw much more in Jane than a farm manager, however. Accustomed as she was to looking at every young woman as a possible wife for Mark, she secretly hoped to add mother to her grandchildren to Jane’s duty roster in due time. She was exactly the kind of girl Nora believed Mark needed. He was bright, handsome, an athlete, and a determined professional, but damn it, he was emotionally arrested, and Nora wanted grandchildren.

  She had waited patiently for Mark to outgrow his youthful passions and settle down, but he seemed just as determined to remain single. Recently, she had observed the first gray hairs appearing at his temples. He favored Robert, who at sixty-seven was still gallantly tall and handsome. The two looked cut from the same cloth, but she hoped Mark would become a father before his entire head became silver.

  Mark was a brilliant investment lawyer, a financial geni
us, and was wealthy in his own right. He had been running the family farm and holdings since he’d completed law school. Her successful, handsome son, she sighed inwardly. She regretted having gotten rich and not having had more children. These two circumstances, she believed, had formed an aloofness in Mark’s character: He was too damn independent.

  She never openly criticized or pressured Mark. She shared her thoughts sparingly even with Robert, who’d often said, “Let the boy alone, he’ll find his way in the end,” though even Robert showed signs that he was beginning to have his doubts. Clearly, Mark liked women. But however different his girlfriends were from each other, Mark slipped away from each of them in short order. One month, he’d be seeing a college student, dangerously close to being young enough to be his daughter. The next month, he’d be intrigued by an uptight commercial Realtor, more driven by her work than Mark was by his. Then there was the bohemian artist, who might have panned out but for her valium addiction; and on and on went the list. The only thing they had in common was that they were all pretty. And that seemed to be all Mark required.

  Women fluttered in and out of his life every few months, so that Nora lost track of them. Far from being the kind of mother who thought no woman good enough for her son, Nora rather believed almost any woman was good enough. She admired her own sex and disapproved of Mark’s seeming inability to make a commitment. She wondered where she and Robert had gone wrong. Why was her son still single? Why was he unable to form a serious bond with a woman? It bothered her that Mark was … a cad. And lately, she had begun to wonder, “What’s a little valium addiction among friends?”

  When she’d met Jane, she thought, “Here is a great woman. Beautiful, spirited, strong,” and hoped that if she placed Mark and Jane together, something would come of it. Jane met Mark’s only observable criterion: She was fabulous looking. Nora was confident she’d at least make the first cut.

  As they rode out on the farm together in the hot weeks of August, Nora observed Jane’s quiet confidence juxtaposed against her charming lack of self-possession. Whatever Mark’s commitment issues were, Nora hoped Jane would solve them. She determined to do what little lay in her power to bring it about and formed a simple plan and dreamed of the beautiful children Mark and Jane would make.

  Chapter Three

  Out of curiosity, Mark had Googled Jane after their first meeting, and found an impressive array of scholarship. Though he had minored in English as an undergraduate, he majored in political science — more masculine. The subtleties of Jane’s approach to T.S. Eliot, therefore, eluded him. Still, he was smart enough to recognize a strong mind and a confident competence in her work.

  At dinner, Mark’s parents had dropped their big news on them: Nora and Robert were moving on to life’s next adventure, leaving him in charge with Jane to oversee the daily operations. Mark was surprised, but pleased on two counts. First, he was feeling corralled in New York, and secondly, because Jane, now that he’d met her, was a damned attractive woman. He was intrigued.

  Over the next few weeks, they were thrown together frequently to discuss the farm, expenses, staffing, and the like, and they naturally began to get better acquainted. And Mark, no stranger to the stable and its routine, enjoyed taking his exercise in chores as often as his work permitted. While they spoke freely and often, neither brought up personal matters, but they became more relaxed in each other’s company. Mark found Jane intelligent, funny, easy-going, and likeable. Likeability plus a healthy male appetite and Jane’s beauty equaled Mark wondering what it would be like to be her lover. Of all the women Mark had set his sights on, he had never considered a woman in a subordinate position. Not even his administrative assistant in New York, who clearly worshipped him and was cute, too. But, she did not present nearly the temptation Jane did. Still, common wisdom dictated that one not get his apples where he got his oranges, whatever that meant. He couldn’t stop himself from fantasizing, however, which he didn’t think would harm anyone.

  Mark was accustomed to casual and easy relationships with women who took things for what they were worth, at least out of the gate. He didn’t want to wrestle with his conscience or lead anybody on — but far more importantly — he didn’t want to get tied down. I-n-v-o-l-v-e-d. It always surprised him, therefore, when his relationships with women became serious from the woman’s point of view. And that seemed to be the persistent pattern and was happening again with his latest girlfriend. So, he jumped at his mother’s invitation to make an extended visit to the farm. He needed to retreat from New York for a while and let things simmer down. He hadn’t planned it, but he couldn’t help his attraction to Jane. Of course, he wanted to tumble in the hay with her, if she were willing, but he did not need to push anything. He’d just let things happen spontaneously, if they were to happen at all.

  The Hannons threw an annual grand party at the farm, which satisfied their many professional obligations. Mark had an extensive client base among Hollywood actors, directors, and writers. And man, those people liked to party! The farm and office staff, townspeople, and local merchants were always invited as well. Nora even invited all the lockjaws, who, while they might look down their noses at the nouveaux riche Hannons, would never quibble with fame and excellent wine.

  With Nora and Robert leaving, the party duty fell to Mark. He intended to get Jane involved too and asked her to come to the house. Indeed, Mark had quickly and unconsciously gotten into the habit of thinking of Jane as the woman of Hannon Farm. He often sought her input on matters that he regarded as needing a feminine perspective. And he had also just hired a new man, Mac, whom Phillips — the house manager — had recommended. He wanted to ask Jane to take him on in the stable. And he wanted to get cracking with the party plans, too. But even more than these solid reasons for asking Jane to the house, he simply wanted to see her and was glad of the excuse. Mark briskly attended to his business matters, raced through phone calls, skypes, and emails, and feeling more at leisure, called Jane and invited her to the house.

  Chapter Four

  For her part, Jane was glad of Mark’s invitation to come to the house as well. She too had been enjoying Mark’s company, their easy friendship, and the playful banter they had quickly developed. She also wanted to tell Mark that the John Deere was acting up again. She sat on the mounting block with a hoof pick to get all the packed straw, mud, and horseshit out of her boots. Then she stiff brushed them dry and walked down the white gravel road to the house, which rose up out of the landscape heavily and imperiously. She trotted up the steps between the grand Grecian pillars and rang the bell.

  “Good morning, Jane,” said Phillips. “Mark is in the library. He’s expecting you.” Phillips was not much older than Mark, but he had an old soul. Jane felt positively complimented that he used her familiar name, while he was always just and only, “Phillips.”

  “Thank you, Phillips. How are Mary and the assorted minor Phillipses?”

  “Oh, quite well, thank you. Mary still talks about the macaroni and cheese casserole you brought her after Peter’s birth. She’s tried to make it more than once, but says she can’t get it to taste the way it did when she brought the baby home, though I can’t tell the difference.”

  “Well, you know what they say: a great dish begins with a great appetite.” (“And an undiscerning palate,” Jane gently mused.) “I’ll call Mary later and share my mac and cheese secrets,” and headed down the hall. “I’ll let myself into the library.”

  Jane knocked lightly and opened the library door. There had been an unusual cold snap as September spilled into October, of which Mark had taken full advantage and had a blazing fire going. “Hello, Jane,” he called out cheerfully from behind his papers. He rose up to greet her with his hand extended.

  “You don’t want to shake hands with me, Mark,” she laughed, “I’ve been mucking out stalls all morning.”

  “Don’t be silly,” he said as he took her han
d in both of his and turned her palm up to examine it. “Uh-oh, what have we here? Your career line says, ‘She was only a stable girl, but all the horsemen knew ’er.’”

  “Very funny, Mark. I have one for you: Your John Deere is stuck in the field again. When are you going to make me a happy woman and buy me a new tractor?”

  “Have you been abusing it again? I’ve got a sentimental attachment to the John Deere, Jane. It came out the year I was born. He’s like a brother to me.”

  “Well, your brother needs rehab,” Jane offered, ignoring the fact that she routinely beat the tractor and kicked its tires. “I would like to hog brush the fields and plant grass in the next couple of weeks. Or your pretty pastures are going to look like mud slabs come spring — your mother will kill us both.”

  “Jane, you’re such a hard woman to please. Why don’t you ask for fur coats or diamonds? With you it’s all tractors, and hay, and pastures. Still, you’re right about my mother.” He let her hand fall, then sniffed his own hand, “Yummy, horse poop.”

  “I told you,” she exclaimed, laughing with embarrassment and wiping her hand on her sweatshirt. “So, what did you want to see me about?”

  “Couple of things. First, I hired this new guy — his name’s Mac. And, I’m sorry I didn’t ask you first, but I told him it would be okay if he helped you out in the stable,” he said, quickly and almost wincing.