by Janet Dailey
By the time he could make himself leave Caroline, it was late. That night when he got home, he made tender love to Babs, letting his body beg forgiveness for his adultery, knowing he would do it again and again.
From that night on, Dean saw Caroline whenever he could, stealing an hour here, two hours there, sometimes an entire evening. It meant he had to lie, to make up fictitious appointments and invent excuses for coming home later than usual. He shied away from pretending he had to work late, fearing that his father might begin to question that. Most of the time he used Lane Canfield, claiming he had a meeting with him or he'd run into him somewhere, knowing that because of his long friendship with Lane, such an excuse wasn't likely to arouse suspicion. Other times it was an Arabian horse somebody had that he'd gone to see.
Dean tried not to think about the double life he was leading: on one hand, the devoted, loving husband, maintaining the routine of married life as if everything were normal, and on the other, the eager lover, cherishing every second spent with his mistress. Not once did he let himself wonder how long it could go on. There was only now. Nothing else mattered.
With Caroline, Dean felt free to be himself for the first time in his life—sexually free, confident that nothing would shock or offend her; and emotionally free, certain that he could talk openly about his feelings and know that she would understand.
At the same time that he told her about his dream to someday turn River Bend into the top Arabian stud farm in the world, a contemporary rival to the legendary Crabbet Park Stud in England or Janow Podlaski in Poland, he admitted the mixed feelings he had about working in his father's company, wanting to please him while knowing he lacked the ability ever to run the multimillion-dollar corporation.
"He's wrong to expect you to follow in his footsteps, Dean," Caroline stated in the black-and-white way she had in her opinions. "No one can do that—and shouldn't. You are an individual. His way will never be yours. You need to tell him that. Make him understand what you want. Just because the company is his life's work, that doesn't mean it has to be yours. He probably won't like it when you tell him that, but what can he do? He has to respect you for taking a stand. And he has to know that you didn't reach this decision without ever trying to see if it was something you could do."
Although Dean was willing to concede that she was right, he was hesitant to take such a giant step. Caroline had never met R.D. She had never seen him tear someone's logic to shreds, then piece it back together, creating a totally different conclusion. But he did sit down with R.D. and discuss his desire to take a more active role in the breeding operation and relieve R.D. of some of that responsibility. R.D. agreed to it almost immediately. Dean felt that if he could prove himself with the Arabians, his father would be more receptive to the idea of Dean dropping out of the company.
Life suddenly seemed very good to him—complicated, perhaps, but good just the same. Everything seemed to be within his reach: Caroline, the horses—everything.
Whistling a catchy tune he'd heard on the car radio driving home, R.D. crossed the living room's parquet floor of light chestnut and dark walnut boards and paused in the archway leading to the hall to do a mock little sashay, then proceeded to the staircase. He paused at the bottom and hollered up, "Babs, girl! I'm ready to go do a little dancing' if you are!" He started whistling again as he waited for her to come down. When he failed to hear the sound of her footsteps in the upstairs hall, he stopped and cocked his head to listen. Nothing.
"Babs?" he called again, then started up the stairs. It wasn't like her to be late for a party, and certainly not when it was gonna be a good ol' Texas barbecue.
When he reached the second-floor landing, he turned and walked over to the door to the bedroom suite that belonged to Babs and Dean. R.D. paused outside to listen and heard a faint noise that sounded like Babs was sniffling. He knocked once and reached for the doorknob. She was standing at the window with her back to the door when he opened it. A lace shawl was draped around her shoulders, covering the Mexican-style peasant blouse that went with the bright full skirt.
"Babs, are you ready to go?" R.D. frowned at the startled way she jumped when she heard his voice then hastily wiped her nose with a wadded handkerchief. He wasn't sure, but he thought she dabbed quickly at her eyes before she turned away from the window.
"I'm sorry, R.D. I guess I didn't hear you." Her voice was tremulous as she went through the motions of looking around her. "I know I laid my clutch purse somewhere."
"Here it is." R.D. picked it up from its resting place on the marble-topped side table by the door. "What's the matter? Are you coming down with a summer cold?"
"Maybe a little one." But she avoided looking at him as she walked over to get her purse from him.
She looked unnaturally pale. When she got closer, R.D. could see the telltale redness of her eyes. "I don't think you've got a cold. Those look like tears to me."
"Nonsense." She airily tried to brush aside his comment, but R.D. had never been one to be brushed aside easily.
"I know tears when I see them. Now either you've been peeling onions or something's the matter. Why don't you tell me what's bothering you, girl?"
"I—Oh, R.D., I don't know what to do." After a faltering attempt to deny anything was wrong, she started to cry again.
"There, there." He put an arm around her shoulders and guided her over to the apricot-colored chaise longue. There he sat her down and gave her his clean handkerchief. "It can't be as bad as all that."
"That's what I keep telling myself." Babs sniffled. "But what if it is?"
"Why don't you stop this boo-hooing for a minute and tell me what this 'it' is?"
"I—it's Dean." She lifted her tearful glance to his face. "I. . . think he's seeing. . . another woman."
He felt first disbelief, then a kind of dazed shock as he looked back over the last two months and saw a pattern to Dean's absences. Still, to Babs, he denied it. "Whatever gave you that silly notion?"
"He's been late so much and. . . and. . . Tomi Fredericks told me this afternoon that he's been seeing a woman in Galveston." She rushed the awful words in her haste to get them said. "Some. . . bohemian artist," Babs added, as if that made it worse.
"Now how in the name of Sam Houston would she know?" R.D. wondered aloud.
"She said that. . . Billie Joe Townsend saw them together on the beach last Friday night when Dean said he'd gone to look at a horse. According to him, Dean kissed her right there in public and then. . . they went walking off down the beach together, so close that you couldn't have got a slip of paper between them. And Tomi claimed that. . . others have seen them, too."
"And you call that proof?" R.D. chided. "Somebody saw somebody who looked like Dean. Did any of them talk to him?"
"I don't think so," she admitted.
"Well, then it seems to me your so-called friend Tomi is just trying to stir up trouble."
"But what if she isn't? What if it's true? He's been so different lately—so preoccupied. Tonight he said he was going to have a drink with Lane and meet us at the barbecue. But what if he isn't? What if he's really with her?"
"And what if cows fly? There's about as much chance of that as there is of Dean leaving you for some other woman. And that's the truth." He'd see to it. "Now, when I take a girl to a party, I expect her to be smiling and happy. So you go wash away those tears on your face and meet me downstairs in"—R.D. made a show of looking at his watch—"five minutes."
"Five minutes." She gazed at him with a glimmer of a grateful smile on her face. "I just love you to pieces, R.D." She pressed a wet kiss firmly on his cheek.
"You'd better behave yourself, girl, or folks'll start talking." He winked at her and smiled.
But the smile faded from his face as he went downstairs and closed the pocket doors in the library before he reached for the telephone.
The next morning, Dean stifled a yawn as he entered the office of his secretary, Mary Jo Anderson. "Late night?" She smiled a
nd peered knowingly at him over the tops of her horn-rimmed glasses. Trained as a legal secretary, she had joined the company six years ago and knew more about the mechanics of the company than he did. Bright and efficient, she had covered his mistakes many times.
"That's putting it mildly." He stopped at her desk to pick up his telephone messages. "If it had been left up to my wife, we still would be dancing. Luckily the band packed up their instruments and went home at two in the morning."
"There's a message there from Lane Canfield. He wanted you to call him back as soon as you came in. He said it was important."
"Will do." He separated it from the others and put it on top, then continued on to the connecting door to his private office, smothering another yawn. "Better bring me a cup of coffee, Mary Jo," Dean said over his shoulder as he pushed open his door.
"Black with lots of sugar?"
"You've got it." Leaving the door open, he walked straight to his desk and picked up the phone. After dialing Lane's number, he settled himself in the swivel chair behind his desk. Directly in front of him on the opposite wall hung the painting Caroline called The Sun and the Sea. Every time he looked at it, it was like having her there with him. "Lane," Dean said when his voice came on the line. "How the hell are you?"
"Busy as usual. And you?"
"The same. Mary Jo said you wanted to talk to me right away. What's up?" Just at that moment, she walked in bringing his coffee.
"I had a strange phone call from your father last night," Lane said. Dean froze. For a split second he couldn't think. He couldn't even breathe. "Dean? Are you there?"
"Yes." He felt the first rush of panic as Mary Jo set his coffee cup on the desk. "Yes, just a minute." Covering the receiver's mouthpiece with his hand, he held it away from him and struggled to keep his voice pitched normally. "Would you mind closing the door on your way out, Mary Jo?"
"Of course."
Dean waited until he heard the click of the latch before he uncovered the mouthpiece. "Sorry, I'm back now. You said R.D. called? What did he want?"
"He was looking for you. He had the impression we were supposed to be together."
"What did you tell him?" Dean felt himself breaking into a sweat. He should have guessed that sooner or later something like this would happen, and been prepared for it. But he hadn't.
"I wasn't sure what to say. So I. . . gave him a story that I had gotten tied up with some last-minute paperwork and we were supposed to meet later.
"Thanks," Dean said, exhaling the breath he'd unconsciously been holding.
"He didn't leave any message. Just said he'd talk to you later." Lane paused expectantly, but Dean couldn't fill the gap. "Would you mind telling me what's going on?"
After carrying on a silent debate with himself, Dean realized he had to tell somebody. He couldn't keep it to himself any longer. And he knew he could trust Lane. Dean started talking and didn't stop until he had told Lane practically everything about Caroline and his relationship with her. "I know this probably sounds trite, but Caroline is the most incredible woman I've ever met. I love everything about her." Dean paused, and smiled self-consciously. "I guess I kinda got carried away with my answer, didn't I?"
"A little."
"I want you to meet her, Lane." It suddenly seemed very important to have his best friend meet the woman he loved. "I've got an appointment in Texas City late this morning. Caroline is going to drive up to meet me for lunch. Are you free? Could you join us?"
"I had planned to drop by the plant this afternoon. I probably could get away from here a little earlier than that."
"Try," Dean urged.
Lane promised that he would.
Initially, Lane had been prepared to dismiss Dean's voluble praise as the rantings of a married man enjoying his first taste of forbidden fruit. But after seeing Caroline and him together at the small café, communicating with a look or a touch, and completing each other's sentences, he knew he was wrong. This wasn't some infatuation that would eventually burn itself out. It was much more serious than that.
Lane could even understand what had attracted Dean to Caroline in the first place. She was intelligent and articulate, serious and dedicated. Nothing was ever halfway with her—not even love. She either loved something or someone totally and completely, or not at all. She was the antithesis of Babs.
As he watched them, he had the feeling he was looking at a pair of star-crossed lovers. No matter how much in love they were, Lane could see that they had nothing in common. Their clothes typified it, Dean in his Brooks Brothers suit and Caroline in her black pants and shirt. Their attitudes and their outlooks were nowhere near the same. Saddest of all, Lane recognized that, individually, they couldn't—and wouldn't—change.
As the three of them left the café, Lane started to say his good-byes and leave but Dean stopped him. "You can't go yet. Caroline has something for you."
Curious, Lane followed them over to her vintage Chevrolet. A framed and mounted canvas sat in the backseat, carefully separated from a clutter of rags, easels, and boxes. With Dean's help, Caroline lifted it out and presented it to Lane.
Shades of gray, white, and black swirled out at him, shot with splinters of silver-gold within the enveloping mists of the painting, Lane had the impression of spires, tall cylinders, and a long vertical shaft.
"Do you recognize it?" Dean asked, his eyes alight as he watched Lane's face.
"There is something familiar about it," Lane admitted, but the images were too faint, hidden too well by the swirl of white and gray.
"It's the San Jacinto Monument with the tank farms and chemical plants in the ship channel in the background, shrouded in the early-morning fog and the smoke and fumes from the chemical plants."
As soon as Dean explained it, Lane was suddenly able to discern the faint outline of the lone star, the symbol of Texas, atop the monument's limestone shaft. "Yes, of course."
"I call it Progress," Caroline said.
A somewhat cynical observation, Lane thought, then decided that he was becoming too sensitive over anything that even implied criticism of the pollution around the ship channel. He also recognized that she could have depicted a scene much worse than the reality of the acidic haze and smoke that blanketed the area. She could have painted the waterway itself on fire.
"I like it, Caroline," Lane stated, after studying it a little longer, then he smiled. "And if I was supposed to get a message, I did. I'll hang it in my office just to remind me."
"Dean said you wouldn't be offended." As she looked at him with approval, Lane couldn't help wondering if he had just passed some test. "I have to be going," she said and turned to Dean.
Lane quickly interjected his good-bye and carried the painting to his car so the two lovers could have a degree of privacy. As Caroline drove out of the lot, Dean rejoined him.
"Didn't I tell you she was talented and wonderful?"
"You certainly did," Lane agreed.
"I'm glad you like the painting. You know, she won't let me buy her any presents. I should say, expensive presents. Canvas, paints, brushes—those she'll accept. But she just isn't interested in material things like clothes, jewelry, or perfume. Can you imagine meeting a woman like that?"
"No—at least, not until today."
As Dean gazed in the direction she'd gone, his faint, musing smile changed into a vaguely troubled frown. "I keep wondering why R.D. never mentioned anything about calling you when I talked to him at the barbecue last night."
"Maybe it just slipped his mind."
"R.D.?" Dean retorted skeptically. "He has an elephant's memory."
To play it safe, Dean had stayed close to the office and home for the next three days, but his need for Caroline outweighed caution and he'd finally had to see her, just for a little while. Even so, the fear that his father might suspect something forced Dean to look at his present situation and try to decide what he wanted to do about it. He loved Caroline and he wanted to spend every minute of his time with her
, yet he still cared for Babs—not as deeply as he did for Caroline, but just the same, he didn't want to hurt her. She was completely innocent. She was a good wife, a loving wife. None of this was fair to her. But he also knew that he'd never be able to give Caroline up. Selfishly, what he wanted was for things to go on the way they were.
As he looked over the new crop of foals grazing in the near pasture with the mares, Dean felt an empathy with the foals. Right now, their world was perfect—their mothers right there by their sides offering comfort, protection, and a ready supply of milk—but soon they would have to be weaned. The separation of mare and foal would cause suffering. If Man didn't do it, Mother Nature would. It was unavoidable. Dean knew he was personally faced with a similar situation. It was unrealistic to pretend things didn't have to change. The trauma of a separation was inevitable, but a separation from whom? That's what he'd kept asking himself when he'd gone to see Caroline after work that afternoon.
Sighing, he pushed away from the fence and walked toward the house. Not a breath of air stirred the leaves of the ancient oaks and pecans that shaded the lawn. The hot, sultry weather of an East Texas early August had settled over River Bend with a vengeance. By the time Dean climbed the veranda steps, his cotton shirt and jeans were sticking to him, the denim material drawing tightly against his legs with each stride.
Some claimed that air-conditioning was man's greatest gift to Texas. Dean wholeheartedly agreed with that as he stepped inside and paused a minute to let the coolness wash over him. Intent on a shower and a change of clothes, he headed for the stairs, the heavy thud of his cowboy boots on the foyer's heart-pine floor echoing through the house with its fourteen-foot-high ceilings. But before Dean reached the massive staircase, R.D. walked into view and paused beneath the curved archway to the library.
"Would you mind stepping in here; Dean? I need to talk to you." R.D. turned and walked back into; the library. Dean hesitated a minute, then followed him inside the room lined on two walls with glass-enclosed bookcases of heavy walnut. As R.D. rounded the curved hunt desk that faced the fireplace, he glanced back at Dean. "Close the doors."