Mark laughed, “Not exactly. I fell in love with Betsy Miller, and Diane Westerly, and Cynthia Buxton, and … well, you get the picture. I was fourteen, and I realized that if you’re a guy who likes girls, you can meet a boatload of them in a stable. So, I learned to ride — very well.” Amused that Jane overlooked his obvious double entendre, he rescued himself, “I had to outride the girls, didn’t I? So, I became fearless over fences. Girls loved it! But I almost broke my neck a couple of times.”
“So you don’t really care about horses?” Jane asked.
“Oh no, don’t get me wrong — horses are great. Beautiful animals,” Mark said, “but I’ve mostly outgrown the riding part of it. Every now and then, though, a trail ride inspires me. I love the outdoors, and seeing it from horseback can be spectacular.”
After tacking up, they mounted from the block, and as they walked out, Mark deftly lifted the saddle flap and tightened his girth. Jane did the same. She let Mark take the lead. He was, indeed, legged up. He brought them through paths, fields, woodlands, and over streams, trotting or cantering wherever they could, side by side or single file as needed, and walking when it was all the horses could manage.
Jane declared somewhat nervously, as she looked around, trying to get her bearings, “I’ve never been this far out. I’m afraid I don’t have the greatest sense of direction. I usually stick to trails close to the barn, within a mile or so.”
“Ah, but this is so much better. I wonder where we are?” he teased. He took her into rough terrain far off the usual trails and bridle paths. Everything was so beautiful.
After trotting and cantering for a while, they let the horses walk. “I’ll probably have to eat off the mantle tomorrow,” Mark joked. “So, could you get back on your own if you had to?”
“Uh, the stable’s that way?” she smiled, pointing in opposite directions.
“Ah, my plan is working. You’ll have to trust me to navigate. I’ll be your hero,” he said. “Actually, if we keep on this trail,” he pointed, “we’ll pass out of Bedminster and into North Branch.”
Jane looked at the wild brush and tall grasses that surrounded them. “You call this a ‘trail’?” she asked.
“Well, it’s not a well-worn trail, but yah, this is a trail. There’s so much more to see than you can from the trails near the barn,” he said excitedly.
“It is breathtaking out here. It’s so wild,” she smiled, “but let’s go slow. I don’t want the horses stepping in any gopher holes.”
They passed through the tangled brambles and in and out of wooded areas that broke onto more open fields. They rode through these and fluttered birds out of hiding. Jane recalled, “This reminds me of where I grew up — way back off of Route 22 out by Flemington, before so much of it got developed. It was nothing but wilderness and farms when I was a kid. My brothers and I practically lived outdoors. I used to follow my brothers out on their expeditions — they were older and wanted absolutely nothing to do with me. I was really young, and my mother made them take me along. They were supposed to watch out for me.”
“Did they?” Mark asked.
“In the indifferent fashion older brothers have — they were pretty young, too. One time, I got tired. We were too far out for them to take me back, and I was too tired to follow them further, so they left me, quite in the wilderness.”
“Oh my God. What happened? Obviously, you lived, but were you okay?”
“Yah, I fell asleep in a deer depression. It was pure luck that my bothers found me, on their way back. I never told my mother about that. She would have clobbered my brothers.” Jane smiled, “We were poor and in the country. It’s a good thing we fell in love with nature — because we had plenty of it — even inside the house. My brothers were always finding things — turtles, lizards, snakes. My brother Jimmy brought home a water moccasin once and let it loose in the house — it was awesome! It’s amazing that I survived my childhood,” she laughed, “we were pretty feral. Still, it was great, until, my father died. And then,” she paused to swallow, “everything changed,” and bit the memory off with a smile.
“How old were you then?” Mark asked.
“Ten.”
“Oh, so young,” Mark winced, “That must’ve been tough. I’m so sorry.”
“It was,” she said, appreciating Mark’s look of sympathy, but changing the subject, “What about you? Did you have a happy childhood, Mark?”
He laughed, “I would have to be the most ungrateful jerk in the world to say otherwise.”
“But?” she asked, leadingly.
Mark paused and continued, “I can’t remember the title, but I read this story in college about a man who waited his whole life for a catastrophe he believed would befall him, only it never did. But, in waiting for it, he was afraid to have friends or to get married. He didn’t want anyone else to get hurt when the ‘thing’ happened to him. So, in the end, he never really lived. And, as it turned out, that was the catastrophe.”
“Ah, yes, Henry James. No one does irony like that! So, do you feel that way — that you’re the man to whom nothing happened?”
“Sometimes,” he said. “Things were pretty normal for me as a kid — my mother insisted on that. You know, my father got lucky and made his fortune. But my mother wanted me to grow up appreciating stuff, not just expecting things. I went to public school. I actually didn’t know just how wealthy my parents were until after law school.”
“Really? How did you not know?”
“When I was a kid, we lived a middle-class lifestyle, except for my mother’s horses. I had chores and jobs. I worked throughout undergraduate and law school for my own spending money. By that time, I knew my parents were well off — I mean, they paid my tuition, and plenty of people I knew had loans and financial aid. And then, when I was in law school, they bought Hannon Farm. After I passed the bar, my father asked me to handle the estate, and then I knew just how rich they really were.”
“Were you shocked? What did you think?”
“At first, I was shocked. I thought, ‘my God, they are millionaires many times over, and I delivered pizzas?!’” he laughed. “But Mom said she wanted me to know what it was like to work and earn my way. I think my parents were so terrified I’d have ‘rich-kid, only-child, silver-spoon-up-my-ass syndrome,’ that they did everything they could to prevent it. Dad said he was afraid I’d grow up soft and flabby. He was so proud of any sports trophy I won.” Mark paused, “I’m sorry, am I blathering?”
“Not at all! You are very different from the few, the very few, really rich kids I ever knew.”
“My parents weren’t rich, not really. They had a lot of money. There’s a difference. I mean, my grandfather owned an auto body shop, and my father worked in it. And Mom was a teacher. That’s who they are, and they raised me to compete and earn my way. If they’d let me, I’d take myself out of their will.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I have my own money, and because my mother once told me that it really bothered her that when she and Dad made me work, I had taken a job from some poor kid who really needed it.”
Jane laughed, “I was that kid. I used to feel so sorry for myself because I had to work so hard for everything. All of my education was on me. My mother helped as best she could, but she was only a waitress with her own bills to pay. I wish I could hold the view that it was all … character-building.”
“But you came out of it great,” Mark marveled, “Look at all you’ve accomplished. You’re a genuine scholar. Now that’s impressive.”
“Ugh, scholarship. I hated reading all that dry stuff, and I hated writing my own dry stuff even more. Managing Hannon Farm is a dream come true for me. I feel so alive here.”
“Do you ever mind getting up so early every single day?”
“No, not as long as I get to bed early.�
��
“Well,” Mark asked with a grin, “what if something … you know … keeps you up at night?”
Jane smiled and urged Duchess on, laughing, “Nothing keeps me up after 10pm!” and cantered ahead.
Mark urged Jack on and caught up with her, and called out — “Head up the hill to the left, I want to show you something.”
At the top of the hill, spread out before them was a panoramic view of the Watchungs and fields — a patchwork of green and foliage turned orange, red, yellow, and the deep russet of October. They dismounted and looped the reins loosely about low branches to allow the horses to graze.
“The first time I came upon this view, I wished I could paint,” Mark said. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”
“Oh, Mark,” she said, as if he’d created the scene, himself, “It’s beautiful.” Jane felt herself standing close to Mark; so close, she could almost feel the backs of their hands touch, and yet not. “It’s so lovely,” she sighed and felt Mark’s hand gently take hers. Surprised and smiling, she looked up at him, hoping he wanted to kiss her. And kiss her, he did. And then, just as in the kitchen, she felt herself mold to his body. He held her steady and secure, as she felt herself warming and relaxing, until her mind stopped its endless chatter. There was the bliss of no thinking, just being. Jane felt Mark’s heart beating against her, even through their clothing, as he breathed closely in her ear, softly saying her name, kissing her, and holding her, looking at her with a tender, searching gaze. He filled up her senses with the smells of fall, the sounds of breezes rustling the trees. If he hadn’t held her, she believed her knees would have given way. He gently slid his hands underneath her jacket and caressed her back. Jane’s yearning nearly brought tears to her eyes. She wanted to fall upon the grass. She was sure she would, and would pull Mark down with her.
But just as Jane was about to sink to the ground, Jack briskly trotted past them. He had obviously loosened himself and was cavorting gaily to his freedom. Jane was the first to notice, and placed her hands on Mark’s chest, gently pushing him away from her, arching her back as she did so. “Jack’s loose,” she rasped. “We have to get him.” Jack, determined to be free, trotted further from them when they approached. Jane, on wobbly legs and still breathless, decided she’d have a better chance of catching Jack if she did so from atop Duchess, so she returned and mounted her and rode up to Jack, who finally allowed himself to be caught.
By then, she had cooled sufficiently to be relieved that Jack had prevented her from having wild and passionate sex in the field. Whoa pony, indeed! It was romantic where there was true feeling, but seemed crass and vulgar — animal — without it. Her mind clearing, she suggested that they’d better get back. She didn’t dare meet Mark’s gaze, fearing whatever reaction he might have.
Jane would invite Mark to dinner that very night, if he were free. She needed Rachel to meet him, and hoped that then she could help Jane through her conflicting fear and hope of what might, could, or would be with Mark, whatever it was.
Jane had had her heart broken more than once; and she had broken hearts, too. She had begun lately to give up the hope of an ordinary happiness with a man, such happiness as seemed commonplace for the majority, but that had eluded her. She went to the farm determined to build for herself an alternate happiness, deeply individual to her. It was a mystic kind of awe and joy she felt, as if the very rocks would give up their love to her as she began to know how to ask for it rightly. But the afternoon, riding in the wilds, the air crisp, the sun warm, and Mark — she wondered could that other, simpler happiness also be hers. Could she entrust her happiness to Mark?
Chapter Thirteen
Jane was grateful for Mark’s help, putting the barn in order for the night. And as they brought horses in, they continued to chat. Jane asked Mark if he believed he had — what had he called it — “rich-kid, only-child, silver-spoon-up-his-ass” syndrome.
“God, I hope not!” he blurted. “I would have given anything to have siblings. When I was really little, I used to ask my mother for a brother or a sister on my birthdays and at Christmas,” he said thoughtfully, “and then, after a while, I stopped asking. I could see it tore my mother up. They had me in every club, every team, boy scouts, eagle scouts, the works, to make sure I bounced off of other kids.”
“Did they consider adopting?” Jane asked.
“I never asked, but I think they assumed that they were going to have more children of their own. And then, later, Hannon Farm was Mom’s way of surrounding herself with kids. I’ll tell you one thing, Jane, I would never want to have just one kid. I’d rather adopt a dozen.”
• • •
By the time they finished setting the barn right, it was nearly six. “I’m starved,” Jane said, “would you like to have dinner with me and my friends?” Mark was intrigued at the prospect of meeting Jane’s friends. It felt rather as though he were being invited “home to meet the family,” a relationship milestone that suggested a step further toward deepening their connection — and he was starving, too.
They entered the house through the kitchen, where Rachel and Abby were in the middle of preparing dinner. Jane introduced Mark, and Abby said, “Hi, Jane’s told us so much about you.”
“Nothing bad, I hope,” Mark smiled as he shook hands.
“Oh, no! It’s all good,” Abby assured him.
Rachel was roughly chopping an onion, while she gave Mark a smiling appraisal. “Absolutely!” she echoed. “Jane tells us you’re a lawyer and an investor. Sounds exciting.”
“And, he’s good in the kitchen — I’ve seen him slice carrots myself,” Jane added as she took Mark’s jacket for him.
“My mamma didn’t raise no slackers. What can I do to help?”
Abby said, “We’re making a stew,” and passed Mark some potatoes and a peeler.
“How about a glass of wine?” Jane offered.
“That would be perfect, thanks.”
Jane got two glasses from the cabinet and poured the wine from the mag on the counter. “Hmmm, rare vintage — did you bust the piggy bank?” she asked Abby.
“I have the palate of a retriever. So long as I can lap it up, I’m happy,” Abby said, adding, “Frank agrees with me, right boy?” Frank, watching the group from his corner in the kitchen, pricked his ears.
“Tell me you didn’t give wine to my dog,” Jane admonished.
“Silly child. Of course not,” Abby reassured her.
“Frank’s a beer dog anyway,” Mark said as tossed a peeled potato into the colander for rinsing.
“So Rachel, I meant to thank you for agreeing to be our gypsy fortuneteller,” Mark said.
“No problem, I’m hoping to get some clients out of it, so it works for me.”
“The locals will be talking about it for weeks, I’m sure. We’re very provincial here. So how do you do it?” Mark asked.
Rachel asked, “Do what? Oh! Give psychic readings. Would you like a demonstration?” shooting a glance at Jane.
“Absolutely!” Mark said, “I want to make sure my guests will be happy.”
Rachel looked at him a moment and said, “Okay, let me tell you how I work. First of all, I don’t know any other psychics — ironic, I know. So I’m not sure whether they use Ouija boards or Magic Eight balls or divining rods. Personally, I don’t like cliché paranormal objects, so what I usually do is draw.”
“Jane mentioned that, and that you also sell the artwork to clients.”
“Yes, if they want it, which sometimes they do. I mean, it’s a direct reflection of them. Trust me: I’m not getting rich on either the readings or the art.” She paused to scrape the onions into the pot and rinsed her hands before continuing. “So here’s what I do: First, I have an ironclad rule never to tell anyone any bad things. Not that I’ve ever seen anything really bad — I’m pretty sure my subconscious
mind blocks me. It’s too much responsibility. When I see potentially bad things, I try to see the solution.”
“Can you see the next Triple Crown by any chance?” Mark joked.
“Eh, no. Sorry. Also,” Rachel continued, “my ‘awareness’ or ‘insight’ or whatever you want to call it is not based on any direct vision. I mean, it’s not as if I’m watching TV and describing the show. It’s a lot vaguer, as Jane can attest from experience — more impressionistic and peripheral. That’s why I draw. I need a direct object to focus on, and while I’m drawing, the peripheral information sort of comes to me. It’s all very inexact, I’m afraid. But that’s basically how it works. The whole thing is incredibly imperfect, but I am getting better at it or, trying to, anyway. Oh,” she added as an afterthought, “oddly, while details are usually muddled, I often get names or close approximations. I don’t know why.”
While Rachel explained her methods, Jane slipped out and returned with some paper and a number two pencil, and placed them in front of Rachel.
“Are you ready?” Rachel asked Mark.
“I’m all set. Be gentle, it’s my first time,” he laughed nervously.
“Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and cauldron bubble,” Rachel crackled in a fake spooky voice. And seeing Mark’s momentary alarm, she laughed, “I’m kidding, silly.”
“Those Shakespeare lessons will come in handy, Mark,” Jane quipped.
“I do know Macbeth … that part anyway. A little sensitivity here, please. I’m a fortune virgin.”
“Shhhhh,” Rachel ordered, “I can’t hear the witches, I mean myself, think.”
As they settled down, Rachel began sketching. After a short silence, she smiled and said, “I see an older woman, she’s very beautiful. She has sparkling green eyes and a dimple on the left side of her mouth. She’s Celtic looking — Irish or Scottish. She could be a warrior, but she prefers the hearth. Mona … Lora … no, that’s not right … ”
“Nora. She’s my mother.” Incredulous, he turned to Jane. “You told Rachel about my mother, didn’t you?”
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