A Summer Affair

by Susan Wiggs

  “Doctor who?”

  “Never mind. He’s probably wrong, anyway. When do you shoot next?”

  “They say the next round will take an hour, and then I compete again. Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked.

  “Tell me, Lucas,” she said, “do you spend much time thinking of your mother?”

  He finished his lemonade and set down the glass. “No. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m curious, that’s all. Life isn’t easy, that’s a fact. Growing up without a mother makes some things that much harder, wouldn’t you think?” Isabel sounded like a stranger, even to herself. Imagine, her, offering wisdom and advice.

  “I don’t know if it’s harder or not. I’ve nothing to compare it to.” He stared down at the boardwalk and thought for a moment. “It’s not that I don’t miss her or that I didn’t love her, but I just don’t have…much of her.”

  “I understand. I don’t remember much about the time when I was small, either.” Thank goodness, she thought.

  “I don’t remember the day she died,” he softly confessed.

  “And you don’t need to. That’s not your job,” Isabel said quickly, regretting the choice of topic. The things she’d learned about that day were disturbing enough to her, and she’d never even known the woman. She touched his hand. “We’d best get ready for the final round. Come along.”

  They went together to the ammunition stand adjacent to the judging platform.

  “You didn’t tell me you’d dropped to second place,” Lucas said, studying the other side of the posting board.

  “My last shot was shameful. I made the unforgivable and wholly common error of breaking my concentration. I lost out to Mrs. Clarice Hatcher.”

  “Oh. Her.”

  “You know her?”

  “Not well. My father occasionally steps out with her.”

  She had suspected as much, based on her encounter with the woman at the ball. Even so, hearing the news from Lucas had an unpleasant effect on her, much as putting her bare hand on a hot stove. “Oh, really?”

  He shrugged. “He’s known her for years. When I was younger, I used to worry that she would become my mother.”

  “Why would that worry you? I would think you’d welcome a mother.”

  “Maybe. Not her, though. She’s always talking about fashion and art, and gossiping about other people. I stopped worrying about her becoming my mother, though. It’s not going to happen.”

  “You sound quite confident of that.”

  “I am. My grandmother and sisters have been trying to find him a match for years.” Lucas turned his face to the horizon, where the sea and sky met. With a wisdom beyond his years, he said, “But he’ll never remarry. Ever.”

  Thirty-Four

  At first, Blue felt only mild concern. Isabel had been gone too long. He felt a twinge of irritation. She might at least have informed someone of her plans. The woman came and went like a hummingbird with no regard for what someone else might have to say about it. She loved her freedom and answered to no one. Perhaps that was why loving her was so risky.

  He believed she loved him back. But that might not be enough to hold her.

  After looking all through the house and surgery, he resorted to asking the help. No one knew where she and Lucas had gone. He decided to go down to the livery to ask Efrena for some hint as to where they were. It chagrined him that he couldn’t figure it out on his own. He didn’t know where Lucas went for pleasure, didn’t know what he did for fun.

  That was all about to change. He hurried with a spring in his step. Perhaps he’d finally found something he and his son had in common. They both loved Isabel.

  He crossed the service alley and stepped into the shadowy livery, filled with the rich odor of horse. Holding Gonzalo’s hoof between her knees as she inspected the underside, Efrena didn’t seem surprised to see him, nor did she wait for him to ask. “They didn’t say where they were going.”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “You are now.” Efrena straightened up, brushing off her hands on her thick canvas farrier’s apron. She faced him with her usual calm demeanor.

  Blue’s mild annoyance deepened. He knew them both too well—their recklessness, their habit of finding trouble. Lucas had made no secret of his admiration for Isabel’s dashing ways, her sophistication. Perhaps he saw in her, if not a mother, then a mentor.

  “Don’t get in a temper,” Efrena said.

  “What makes you think I’m in a temper?” With deliberate effort, he eased the scowl from his face.

  “Do not scold Lucas for entertaining a guest.”

  “Why are you being so damned evasive? Where the hell are they, Efrena?”

  She set aside the hoof pick and studied him thoughtfully. Then she patted the big horse’s neck and motioned for Blue to follow her into the tack room. She took down a notice stuck on a rusty nail in the wall and handed it to Blue. “This is where they are.”

  A shooting match. A damned shooting match. This was not a prank like stealing the communion wine, but real trouble. “Damn it, what the devil put that notion in his head?” Blue asked. “He knows my views on firearms.”

  “Perhaps he has views of his own.”

  “He’s just a boy. He’s not allowed to have views.” Blue crumbled the handbill and stuffed it into his pocket.

  Less than ten minutes later, he was riding hell-for-leather toward Russ Gardens. Almost, he thought. He’d almost declared himself a happy man, a man in love. How close he had come, he thought, to gambling his heart away to a woman like Isabel. She was careless—with safety, with the truth, with people’s hearts.

  There were some things, he thought, that love couldn’t fix. He of all people should know that.

  Thirty-Five

  Isabel knew she should be concentrating solely on the shooting match, but Lucas’s comment lingered in her mind, distracting her. “Why do you say your father will never marry?” she asked.

  “Because if he hasn’t in all this time, he never will.” Lucas slipped his rifle into its polished leather case and tucked it under his arm. “Andrew’s mother died three years ago. His father married again and already has a new baby. My father would never do that.” They strolled the grounds, where local merchants and craftsmen had set out their wares for sale. Vendors offered fishcakes and sausages, chipped ice flavored with berry juice, candies wrapped in edible rice paper.

  Isabel had no taste for anything, though. “You seem quite sure of yourself.”

  “His work is his one true love.”

  “He loves you,” she pointed out.

  A scowl darkened Lucas’s brow. “He has a fine way of showing it, then.”

  “How would you like him to show it?”

  “By letting me figure out my own life.”

  They walked up and down the rows of tables, some of them shaded by umbrellas. As they passed a display of antique firearms for sale, she nearly collided with a strolling couple perusing the pistols. She stepped back from the slant-topped table and studied the woman, who wore a tailored walking gown and clung to the arm of a dignified man with salt-and-pepper hair. A funny feeling that was more than curiosity darted through Isabel.

  “Lucas, who are those people?” She indicated them amid the crowd of shoppers. “They look familiar to me.”

  He looked in the direction she was pointing. “Dr. and Mrs. Vickery,” he said.

  She studied them from beneath the brim of her bonnet. The name meant nothing to her, yet for no reason she could fathom, a tingle of apprehension skittered along the back of her neck. “Is he a physician, then?”

  Lucas nodded. “Father knows him.”

  Dr. Vickery was a mild-looking man, well-groomed and dignified. His wife was a restless sort, charging about the antique gun display like a child in a candy store. Isabel realized she and Lucas weren’t the only ones watching the Vickerys. She nudged him, indicating a pair of men in cheaply tailored clothes. One wore a dented hat sporting a long, variegate
d feather. “What do you make of those two?”

  “Crimps,” he said. “You see them everywhere you go in the city. They’re probably looking for boys to shanghai tonight.”

  Isabel watched them for a moment. One wore a large flask on a shoulder strap and the other had a bulge beneath his frockcoat that was probably a gun. Yet they didn’t appear to be looking for boys in the crowd. They appeared to be looking at Lucas.

  “We should go,” Isabel said.

  At that moment, Mrs. Vickery picked up a German-made pistol and waved it around. Gasps and murmurs rose from the milling crowd. Instinctively, Isabel grabbed Lucas and shoved him behind her. The gun dealer crouched down behind his table. The suspicious-looking crimps scurried away. Dr. Vickery turned pale, reaching for the gun. His wife eluded his grasp, pointing it playfully at him.

  “Bang,” she said, then burst out laughing. “Oh, Fremont, you should see your face. You look as though you are facing a firing squad.”

  “Hand me the gun, Alma,” he said. “These are not toys.”

  “I know that, Fremont,” she snapped, her laughter evaporating. “Don’t you think I know that?”

  She pouted but allowed him to pry the gun from her and hand it back to the antiques dealer. “Leave that one,” he said in a Southern drawl. “You don’t want to cause an accident.”

  Leave that one. The words resonated unpleasantly through Isabel, echoing deep.

  As the crowd started moving again, Vickery’s gaze flickered past Isabel, then returned to her.

  She pretended she hadn’t noticed his stare, but he spoke up before she could grab Lucas and walk away.

  “Have we met, miss?” he asked.

  She felt cold all over and could not think why. The man was a doctor, a colleague of Blue’s. She offered him a gracious smile. “I’m Isabel Fish-Wooten. Mr. Calhoun tells me you’re Dr. and Mrs. Vickery, acquaintances of his father.”

  “Calhoun,” said Mrs. Vickery. “Like that nice Dr. Calhoun who visits Officer Brolin in the hospital.”

  Vickery’s polite expression didn’t change. “I didn’t know he was visiting Brolin.”

  “Yes, dear. They say he comes every day.” A smile lingered about her lips as though she had forgotten it. “Come along, Fremont. I am getting a headache.”

  “Good day, ma’am,” Lucas said.

  What a strange pair, Isabel thought. “Well,” she said to Lucas, “I should not like to encounter her in a dark alley at night. Or anywhere, for that matter. Even a tea party.” She shuddered, and he laughed at her expression.

  “They seem a little odd to me, too,” Lucas said.

  It was more than oddness that teased Isabel’s brain. She sent Lucas off to prepare for the final round and lingered in the area of the trading fair. She was certain she’d never met the Vickerys, yet the encounter nagged at her. Dr. Vickery escorted his wife to a glossy closed carriage in the field beside the park. He handed her up, shut the door and walked to the rear of the vehicle. Then someone else joined him—Mrs. Clarice Hatcher, the leader in the shooting tournament. Isabel could tell by the furtive angle of their heads that they were having an extremely private conversation. Mrs. Hatcher handed him something, but Isabel was too far away to see what it was. Then a quick, passionate embrace told her all she needed to know about these two. Brazen as brass, with the poor, addled wife inside the coach. Dr. Vickery broke away and drove off.

  Just then, Mrs. Hatcher looked across the field. Despite the distance between them, Isabel could feel the woman’s eyes lock on to her. Pretending not to notice, she joined Lucas at the practice range, where she tried to shake off an unsettled feeling. They cleaned and polished and reloaded their sporting pieces, which Lucas’s friend Frank had been kind enough to loan them. “I’m going to be the best marksman in San Francisco one day,” Lucas declared, sighting down the barrel.

  “Not today,” said an angry voice behind them.

  She heard Lucas swallow audibly as he turned around. Then she saw him straighten himself to his full height. “Hello, Father.”

  Isabel offered Blue her most dazzling smile. He looked particularly handsome today in a crisp white shirt and charcoal-colored trousers. A fine blue waistcoat reflected the color of his eyes. “Good,” she said, “you’ve come just in time to watch the final round.”

  He was out of breath. She could tell he had ridden hard just to see his son compete. He’d even dressed up for the occasion. He was a wonderful father, after all, she reflected, her heart filling with affection and esteem. She glanced over at Lucas to see if the boy shared her pleasure. Instead, Lucas was gaping at his father in horror.

  “I assure you, that’s not my purpose in coming here,” he said.

  Something had happened, she realized. She’d never seen him quite like this. Oh, she had seen him angry. That was his customary state of mind. But this was different. He looked…intimidating, his wide-shouldered silhouette nearly blotting out the late afternoon sun. That was Blue—a great, large thundercloud of a man.

  But Isabel had never been afraid of storms. “You won’t be sorry. The leaders are desperately close, and—”

  “Where did you get this?” he demanded, grabbing the gun from Lucas.

  “Father, I need that for the next round.”

  With viciously efficient movements, Blue emptied the chamber. “What you need is to remember the way you’ve been raised. Firearms are not a part of our lives. They never have been. Not for sport or any other purpose.”

  “Those are your rules, Father,” Lucas retorted. “I was never given a choice.”

  For a fraction of a second, a crack appeared in Blue’s angry facade. “Damn it, Lucas, you know my reasons.”

  The boy’s face turned pale and stiff. A certain tension in the jaw hinted he was close to tears. Isabel felt yet another maternal sensation—protectiveness. These two, she thought with a lurch of her heart. They loved each other so much, but that didn’t seem to solve anything for them.

  “I do know,” Lucas said in a low growl that vibrated rage and hurt. “Sir.” With that, he walked away, heading toward the dunes at the edge of the park, where the road led back to town.

  “Why must you be so autocratic?” Isabel demanded, whirling around to face Blue. Her anger was tinged by another, more difficult emotion. Sadness. She cared deeply about both Blue and Lucas. She hated to see the two of them like this—resentful and hurting, willing to strike out at each other.

  “I don’t owe you an explanation. But I will say this. He’s always resorted to manipulation in order to get his own way. Indulging his immature impulses and permitting him to experiment with dangerous behavior will only encourage him to put himself in harm’s way.”

  “He’s learning to shoot the proper way,” she insisted. “Safely. I taught him myself, and I would never let him come to harm. I l—I hold Lucas in the highest esteem.” Heavens, had she almost said she loved the boy?

  Blue didn’t seem to notice, or if he had, he seemed not to care. He sagged against the wooden rail and shoved his hand through his hair. “How long has this been going on?”

  His air of bleak fatigue disturbed her far more than his anger. She would take passion in any form over indifference. “His mother was shot to death,” she said, aiming straight for the mark. “I know he was there that day. And I know that you are intimately and horribly familiar with the damage gunfire can inflict. So am I. But prohibiting your son from touching a gun is not going to bring an end to violence.”

  His eyes glinted like chips of ice. “So now you’re an expert on raising a son.”

  She refused to flinch. “No, you’re supposed to be the expert. That’s why I’m quite mystified by your unreasonableness.” Good, she thought, watching the ice in his gaze turn to blue flame. At least he wasn’t indifferent anymore. “Tell me, does he know how to swim?”

  “Of course he does.”

  “Did you teach him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “So
he won’t drown if he falls in the water. And if you think I’ll accept that rationalization for allowing him to shoot a gun, you’re wrong.”

  “You shouldn’t believe the worst of him,” she said. “You always do that. You prepare yourself for the worst.”

  “That way I’m never disappointed.”

  “God, you are so—” She willed herself silent before she truly did slip. This man had a hard grip on her emotions. She wondered if he realized that. It felt strange, knowing he had the power to break her heart or make it whole. Taking a deep breath, she tried to turn the discussion calm and reasonable. “He’s nearly grown. Soon he will be making all of his own decisions.”

  “Fine. He can do so when he’s grown. He can defy me in any way he chooses.”

  “Defy you?” Isabel wanted to weep. “You’re so wrong. He’s not defiant at all. He’s secretly worried that he can never live up to your expectations.”

  “You presume to know my son well,” he snapped.

  “Perhaps I do. In one summer, I’ve come to know him in ways he only prays his own father will know him.” She could see his temper deepening, but she couldn’t stop herself. Apparently no one, not even his own family, had dared to stand up to him in the matter of his son. She stood on a precipice here. Their fragile new love might not stand up to a fight like this.

  She had to make a choice—hold her silence in the matter of Lucas or risk her already strained bond with Blue. She made her next statement with a full awareness of what it might do to her and Blue. “If you keep imposing your strict rules on Lucas,” she said, “then you won’t have to worry about losing him to gun violence. He’ll simply leave and never come back.”

  She could see the dart hit home. He stiffened and, without moving, seemed to draw away from her. “A habit with which you’re intimately familiar,” he said acidly. “Your constant travels used to mystify me, Isabel, but I think I finally understand why you can never stay in one place very long.”

  “Oh? Enlighten me, Doctor.”

  “You make yourself obnoxious to people and then you leave. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”