by Laura Crum
Driving toward Watsonville, I wondered what I'd say to the man. That is, if I even saw him. My last trip out here hadn't been very productive. Blue had been too busy to say much more than hello.
But today was Sunday. Surely if Blue was around at all, he'd be a little more free.
Why, just why, was I doing this? I felt like a teenager with a crush, not my favorite feeling. Clay Bishop was pursuing me avidly enough. What did I need with the apparently uninterested Blue Winter?
Who knew? He appealed to me. And what do you have to lose, my mind said in a detached tone. Nothing much. By now I was pulling into the rose farm driveway, feeling like a complete fool. I wasn't exactly sure what I was here for.
To look at roses, I assured myself. You like roses. I could see the display garden up ahead, roses draped everywhere, the big, vigorous vines and shrubs splashed with the vivid colors of the blossoms. Crimson, magenta, gold, pink ... mingling in somehow harmonious profusion. I could smell the heady scent all the way from the parking lot.
Beyond the garden were the greenhouses, where the roses for sale were grown. And beyond the greenhouses, somewhere out of sight, was the trailer where Blue Winter lived.
I had never seen Blue's home, but he'd told me once he lived "out back." I stared around. At the moment, I didn't see anyone. The sign in front said the place was open. Next to the garden, a small office building sat quiet; no hints of life visible there. I got out of my truck and walked toward the garden.
Inside the gate, the roses invited me. Each one different from the others, as unique and individual as a horse, or a person. Here was the exquisitely formal cream-colored Madame Hardy, grown by the Empress Josephine. I bent to smell a blossom. This rose, this very plant, since roses are propagated by cuttings, had pleased Napoleon's lover.
A darkly golden rose with a mandarin-orange blush caught my eye and I stopped to search for the name tag.
"Lady Fortviot."
I looked up. Blue Winter stood on the other side of the fence, looking down at me from his six-and-a-half feet. "I saw you drive in," he said. The dog by his side wagged her tail.
Caught by surprise, I gaped up at him, at a loss for words. This tall, redheaded man appeared, as he had the entire time I'd known him, quietly composed. His steady gray eyes watched me thoughtfully from under the brim of a fedora hat. I couldn't tell if he was glad to see me or not.
His spotted dog, on the other hand, greeted me with more tail wags and a curvaceous little wiggle. Everything about her, from the ingratiatingly laid-back ears to the wildly waving white tail said that she, at least, was happy to find me here.
"Hi Freckles," I said. "Hi, Blue."
Another few seconds of quiet, and he seemed to sense my discomfiture. "Would you like a tour?" he asked me.
"Sure." What was it about this guy that rendered me so awkwardly tongue-tied? Some quality of inner stillness that he had made normal chitchat seem frivolous.
Whatever it was, I followed him about the rose garden more or less mutely, listening to his descriptions of the roses and asking occasional questions, the dog trailing in our wake. He took me through the greenhouses and explained the growing operation, showed me the shade houses with the retractable roof where the young plants were acclimatized. When we were done, he asked, "Would you like a cup of coffee?"
"Sure," I said, expecting to be led toward the office. To my surprise, he headed off in the other direction; I almost had to trot to keep up with his long, loping stride.
In a minute we emerged from behind the last greenhouse into an open field on the edge of a bluff. An unobstructed view out over the Monterey Bay rendered the grassy slope dramatic. In the foreground was a travel trailer under a small tin-roofed pole barn, the whole structure almost smothered with an exuberant wealth of climbing roses. Two wooden chairs sat outside the trailer door, under an arbor draped with rose vines. I stopped short with a smile. "Is this where you live?"
"Yes."
I could see corrals out back, with horses in them. One big dun gelding and one small sorrel mare. I recognized them from last summer's pack trip, Dunny and Little Witch. Blue was leading me toward the trailer. I followed him through the door.
Once again, I could feel a smile breaking out on my face. The trailer was old and the interior looked like the cabin of a boat, the walls and ceiling paneled in warm teak-colored wood. It was windowed on all sides and full of light. A couch, an old-fashioned desk in one corner with a computer on it, and a stout armchair were the only furniture. Blue walked into the minuscule kitchen and began making coffee.
"This is great," I said.
"It's little." He put the water on the stove and lit the burner.
"I like little houses. You should see mine. It's not a whole lot bigger."
"I'd like to." Blue smiled, showing crooked teeth and that unexpected sweetness I'd felt when I'd gotten to know him last year. I was reminded of the reason for my visit.
I watched his graceful hands as he poured the grounds into the filter, remembering the slender wrists, the red-gold hairs like fine copper wire on the long forearms. The surprising delicacy in such a big man. Artist's hands, I thought.
Staring at them now, I felt the same pull, an intense physical draw. Blue Winter's fair skin was roughened by sun and wind, and his eyes were lined. A strong jaw and a straight nose made his face handsome enough, but he had none of Clay Bishop's male prettiness. And yet I longed to feel those hands touch me.
Blue handed me a cup of coffee and our fingers brushed. Sure enough, I felt it all the way down in my stomach. The current was still there.
"Shall we sit outside?" he asked.
"Okay." I settled myself in one of the wooden chairs under the rose arbor; Blue sat in the other. The spotted dog lay at his feet. A peach-colored rambler draped a casual arm over my shoulder.
Blue caught my look. "Treasure Trove," he said briefly. Then, "So how have things been going for you since last summer?"
Now was my chance. "Well, I broke up with Lonny." Nothing like being obvious, Gail.
"That's too bad." Blue took a swallow of his coffee.
"Yeah, in a way. But we were both ready to move on. We're still good friends."
"That's good." Once more, Blue seemed remote.
"How about you?" I asked.
"I'm fine. Working hard out here, mostly." The distant tone in his voice sounded like a rebuff, but last summer's pack trip had created a subtle but intimate undercurrent between this man and myself, and I could feel it now. I sensed that Blue Winter was shy rather than aloof, and if I'd learned anything about him, it was that if you wanted to know something, you had to ask. He didn't volunteer much. So, I'd ask.
"Anyone new in your life?"
"No, actually. I'm pretty solitary."
"By choice?"
"More or less." He glanced over at me. "I'll tell you why, if you're interested."
"I'm interested." Blue took another swallow of his coffee. I could feel him thinking.
"I've been in two long-term relationships," he said at last. "Both of them lasted around seven years. The first woman I was married to, the second not. Both of them left me eventually. The last woman I lived with left me in about six months. That was a couple of years ago. I decided I was meant to live alone."
"Do you like it?”
"In some ways. I can do it. I traveled a lot when I was young, mostly alone. I'm used to being solitary." He glanced over at me again. ''I'm used to feeling lonely."
His tone was detached, but I could feel the sadness.
"Do you plan to live alone for the rest of your life?" I asked him.
He shrugged slightly. "I think so. For a while, when I was young, I trained to be a Buddhist monk. I sort of see myself like that now, I guess."
I smiled at him. "That's too bad. I'd kind of planned on asking you out to dinner. Are all Buddhist monks celibate?"
He actually laughed. "It depends," he said. And then, "I'd go out to dinner with you."
I sipped my coffee with an inward smile. This was going better than I'd expected. Maybe Blue would be an antidote for depression. One thing was for sure, I really liked this man.
I was about to open my mouth when my pager went off, unpleasantly shrill. I hushed it and looked apologetically at Blue. ''I'm on call. I need to phone the answering service."
"Of course." He stepped through the trailer door; in another minute he handed me a phone.
The woman at the answering service was brisk. "A Linda Howard has a horse that's very lame; she's afraid it's broken a leg."
"Give me the phone number," I said. Blue was already handing me a notepad and pen.
Number taken, I hung up. "This sounds serious," I told Blue. "I need to call this woman right away and get going. Maybe we could finish this conversation another time." I wrote my phone number down on a slip of paper and handed it to him. "Give me a call sometime, if you want."
"I'll do that." Blue folded the paper and put it in his jeans pocket.
I dialed Linda Howard's number. Her name was familiar, but I didn't know her. I thought she might be a regular client of my boss, Jim Leonard.
Sure enough. My "Hello, this is Dr. McCarthy," elicited "I'd like to speak to Jim, please."
"I'm sorry, I'm on call this weekend. Jim's not available."
The woman's voice was strained and angry. "Look, this is my best mare, and she won't put any weight on her right fore. Jim's been my vet for fifteen years, and I want him out here."
''I'm sorry," I said again. "Jim's off today. I'm sure he'll be happy to come out tomorrow."
"Dammit. I need him now. I've been a good client for a lot of years; why the hell can't you give him a call?"
I shut my teeth on the anger rising inside me. This situation came up occasionally; it was inevitable. Many of Jim's regular clients preferred to use him, and there was no denying he was a more experienced veterinarian. However, what some of them, like this lady, failed to recognize was that Jim had a wife and four kids and a private life of his own. Like most veterinarians, he deeply valued his free time; he would have shot me if I'd passed an emergency call on to him on his day off, merely because the client demanded it.
Patiently, I tried again. "I'm sorry, ma'am. Jim's policy is that only the vet on call is available during our off-duty hours. You can have me now, or you can have Jim tomorrow morning."
"Fuck." The expletive came out loud and clear; I held the phone away from my ear. Blue Winter winced.
Linda Howard sounded somewhere between rage and tears. "I need someone out here right now. I'm afraid her leg might be broken. I need Jim, dammit."
"Do you want me to come out or not?" I was getting tired of this.
"I guess so. It's 6380 Spring Valley Road." And she hung up the phone.
Great. I looked over at Blue, who was regarding me sympathetically. "I'd better go," I said.
"Not much fun for you."
"No. This happens some. I'm used to it. Believe it or not, I actually have a few regular clients who prefer me, and most of Jim's people don't mind me; I've been with him seven years. But there's still a few. This lady's going to be a ball, I can tell. But what can I do?" I stood up. "Thanks for the coffee."
"You're welcome." Blue stood, too. "I'll walk you out to your truck."
We walked in silence, Blue slowing his long stride to match mine. When we reached my pickup he gave me that unaffected smile.
"I'll call you. Maybe we'll have dinner sometime."
"I'd like that." I smiled back, realizing how much I hoped he meant it.
"See you later, Stormy," he said.
I started the truck. Linda Howard and her mare awaited me.
SEVEN
Two hours later all the good feelings I'd had on seeing Blue had evaporated in the chill of Linda Howard's hostility. Her mare had turned out to have what I thought was a bowed tendon rather than a broken leg, a vastly more fixable problem. But Ms. Howard was not placated by the good news. She watched me critically as I palpated, flexed, and eventually wrapped the leg, and listened with obvious disdain to my instructions for treating the mare.
"I'll call Jim in the morning," was all she said. No thank you, no apparent relief that the horse wouldn't have to be destroyed.
What the hell. It was part of the job. Now I was home, sitting on the porch, feeling like shit. Even the weather seemed in league against me.
The morning brightness had faded, and clouds came and went across the sky, alternately hiding and revealing the sun. Light and shadow played somberly over the ground. A restless little wind moved the air around, and I could feel the weight of my own mortality hanging heavy on me.
I stared out over my hollow in the hills, not cheered at all by its magic. I'd created a space of beauty and tranquility here, all right, but for what? For the fleeting pleasure it gave me? Right now that seemed too transitory to be of any importance. I simply didn't know what I was doing it all for.
What is wrong, I asked myself, not for the first time. What is it that's missing in my life? Some sort of true-love, happily-ever-after scenario? I'd never expected or needed that before. Or was it some kind of spiritual grounding that was lacking? Again, this had never bothered me in the past. My job, my animals, my various interests had been enough. So what was so different now? I didn't know. I only knew I felt shitty.
The impulse to go inside and lie down on the couch, turn my face to the wall, was strong, but I fought it. I'd been a fighter all my life, struggling to put myself through college and vet school after my parents died, battling stress and monetary worries in my first few years working for Jim. Now, automatically, I fought the insidious lethargy of depression, pushing myself to keep going, keep doing, despite the lack of inward motivation. You are not going to give in to this; the words chanted in my brain.
I walked slowly down the slope toward the horse corrals. Plumber watched me coming and nickered. I could see the two banty chickens scratching in the straw outside the hay barn. Jack, the little rooster, was a silver lace, very elegant with his white feathers all edged in black. Red, his mate, a more pedestrian commoner, was just a little red hen.
Despite my mood, I smiled at the sight of them. Chickens are cheerful creatures, pecking and clucking around. Without thinking, I checked the big water trough where I kept water lilies and goldfish; sure enough, several tiny goldfish fry wiggled into the weeds as I peered; they'd been born in the last few days.
Plumber nickered again and came trotting up the hill toward me; Gunner ambled behind him. Life teemed and thrust everywhere around me. Once again, I turned to the natural world, in its constant effervescent liveliness, to comfort me.
I saddled Plumber, smoothing the nice wool Navajo blanket in shades of steel blue, black, and cream over his back. I'd bought the saddle blanket years ago to go with Gunner's bright bay coat, high white socks, and one blue eye; now Plumber had inherited it. It looked just fine against his smooth light brown hair, the color of coffee with cream in it.
Once Plumber was saddled, I shut Roey in the dog pen, gave Gunner a pat, and climbed aboard. I could hear Gunner's neighs behind us as I rode down the driveway; no horse likes being left alone. However, I knew from past experience that Gunner, a sensible animal, would settle down once we were out of sight.
The grass along the verge of the drive needed mowing, I noted. Just when was I going to get to that? One of the things I hadn't thought about in my desire to acquire a country property was the amount of steady work it would entail. I always seemed to be behind.
I rode out my front gate, Plumber walking calmly along the edge of the somewhat busy country crossroad I lived on. He was used to traffic, and unconcerned with the noisy automobiles that hurried past him. Still, I kept a cautious eye out for bigger trucks with flapping tarps, or other potentially horse-eating vehicular monsters.
In a little while we reached the crossing I was aiming for; I waited patiently by the side of the road, looking for a large hole in the traffic. Plumber stood qui
etly; one of the things I liked best about the little horse was his willing and cooperative nature. Eventually a gap opened up and we crossed the road, Plumber stepping confidently across the pavement. I smiled to myself, recalling the first time I had crossed this street on Gunner; my older horse had balked and refused to step over the white line, seeming to regard it as some sort of terrifying obstacle. But Gunner was a spook-not so Plumber.
Winding our way up the trail on the other side of the road, I thought about my two horses. How individual they were, in their reactions and temperament. And yet there was a basic sameness, that prey-animal mentality that differentiates horses from companion animals such as cats and dogs. Despite its size and apparent strength, a horse is always something small and vulnerable inside; its first reaction is flight rather than fight.
Hills rolled away on both sides of us, slopes of wild oats bleached gold in the fitful June sunshine. Clumps of tangled brush-greasewood, manzanita, sage, blackberry-broke up the grassland. Everywhere was the movement and scurry of the wild things, going about their business.
Quail scuttled along the ground, clucking to each other, cottontail rabbits sat up to listen and hopped away. A lizard ran up a nearby fence post. Louder crackling in a patch of dense brush fifty yards away was probably deer, though I couldn't see them. Plumber cocked his ears, unperturbed. He was used to deer.
These brushy California coastal hills were alive with wild animals; since I had moved out here, I had seen more varmints, up close and personal, than ever before in my life. A raccoon broke into the cat food bin almost every night; a bobcat had taken one of Jack's previous two wives right in front of me; a red-tailed hawk had gotten the other. Roey had twice been thoroughly skunked, and a big six-point buck regularly pruned most of my rosebushes.