“Would you like to meet the newest member of the family?” he asked.
“Who’s that?”
“Right this way.” He took her hand and led her down the hill.
The air was warm and close inside the stable. He turned on a light, disturbing a sleepy fat cat who’d perched atop a bale of hay. The cat stretched long straight front legs, her eyes still closed.
“Here we are.” He stood outside a double-wide stall and opened the gate. “Hey, Jassie, good girl. We came to see your baby.”
He dug in his shirt pocket and retrieved a lump of sugar, which he offered to the chestnut mare.
“Athen, grab an apple out of that basket behind you and give it to Jassie so she’ll know you’re her friend.” Quentin stroked the horse’s muzzle with obvious fondness.
“A peace offering, is that it?”
“Right. No, no, don’t hold it like that, she’ll take your fingers along with the apple,” he told her. “Hold your hand out flat with the apple on your palm. Like that, yes. That’s the way.”
Athen extended her hand and the horse leaned down to sniff at the offered treat. Large lips, soft as velvet, caressed her palm as the horse gently accepted the snack. Athen reached her hand up to the mare’s head and ran her fingers along the white streak between Jassie’s ears.
“She’s lovely,” Athen murmured.
“Do you ride?” he asked.
“Callie does”—Athen shook her head—“but I never have.”
“Want to learn?” he offered.
“Someday maybe.”
“Any time you want, I’ll be happy to give you a lesson or two. Now,” he told her, “step on in here and see who’s hiding in the corner.”
Athen peered behind him, where a tiny foal tottered on rail-thin legs.
“Oh, how precious,” Athen whispered.
“Come here, Sophia,” Quentin told the little one. “Come meet my friend.”
“Sophia?”
“My mother named her.” He coaxed the foal closer to him.
“I had an aunt named Sophia,” Athen told him as she petted the little animal. “She was my mother’s sister. I only met her one time.”
“When was that?” He crossed the stall to reassure Jassie, who watched the stranger with wary eyes. Quentin’s voice seemed to calm her, and Athen was permitted to continue to stroke the newborn.
“When my mother died, Aunt Sophia came.” Her voice trailed off. “She and my father argued terribly. She blamed my father because my mother had polio. She blamed him because my mother died. She wanted to take my mother back to Greece to bury her.”
“Did she?”
“No. My father believed her place was here, with us.”
“Where is she buried?”
“How much time before dinner?” she asked.
“Probably an hour.”
“Come on.” She took his hand. “I’ll show you.”
SHE DIRECTED HIM TO drive through the center of the park and out along the river.
“Go right,” she told him. “Now here, through the gates of the cemetery and to the left, then follow the road back toward the river. Slow down.” She peered past him, looking to the left. “Stop here.” He did, and she got out of the car.
He followed, crossing over a ridge where a well-worn path led to the river. They passed a grove of trees beyond which was an embankment thirty feet above the riverbed. Amid the stone memorials was a statue of a woman who was seated on the ground holding a small girl in her arms.
Athen translated the inscription, which was written in Greek.
“‘Melina Olympia Stavros. Rest in peace, beloved.’”
“The child is you, of course.” He stepped closer to inspect the features.
Athen nodded. “My father’s cousin sculpted this the year after she died. He knew my mother well, and was able to capture her delicacy quite nicely.”
“She was beautiful,” Quentin told her.
“Thank you, yes, she was.” Athen stepped back to a small stone bench that stood nearby and sat upon it. “She was so tiny, so fragile. Her face could just about fit”—she held up one hand—“in the palm of your hand.”
“How did she die?”
“She had polio when she was young. It left her legs crippled and her lungs very weak. She died of pneumonia.”
He joined Athen on the bench and they sat quietly in the setting sun.
“When I was in high school, I walked out here in the afternoons. I’d sit and pretend I was talking to her while I did my homework.”
“You walked all the way out here? It must be several miles.”
“Two miles and seven-tenths.” She nodded. “But I never minded. I always felt she was here waiting for me. My mother dying when I was so young changed my life. It took away my sense of …” She groped for words.
“Security …?” he ventured.
“It went deeper than that.” She shook her head slowly. “My father always tried to make me feel secure and safe, but I had lost the ability to believe that he would always be there for me. For a long time I had the feeling that he, too, could be taken from me, and I would have no one.”
“And you wonder sometimes if Callie feels the same way?”
“Sometimes,” she confessed. “But it’s different for her. Callie was older when John died. I was five when I lost my mother. At least Callie was old enough to have had some understanding of what happened to John, and she has a wealth of memories that I didn’t have.”
Quentin eased her back to rest against him.
“When I found out about my father and Diana Bennett, I came up here and cried,” she confessed. “I couldn’t understand how my father could replace my mother, with her watching from up here.”
“And now …?”
“Now I’m beginning to see how Diana filled all those empty places inside him. I’m embarrassed that it took me so long to accept it.”
The shadow of the stone woman settled over them as the sun sagged behind the trees. A cool breeze blew across the embankment, and Quentin caressed her arm to warm her.
“I guess we should get back.” Athen stood, taking his hand and pulling him up with her. “Callie will wonder where we’ve gone. I just wanted to show you.”
“Thank you for sharing her with me.”
Athen glanced back at the statue, the features now in darkness.
“Which word is ‘beloved’?” Quentin asked as they turned to go.
“Agape mou.” She pointed to the weathered wording. “It means ‘my beloved.’”
He repeated the word to himself softly, as if to memorize it, as they walked back to the car.
DINNER WAS A RELATIVELY INFORMAL affair. Informal, because they dined on the veranda, but only relatively so because a staff of three served them.
Athen found Hughes Chapman affable and sweet. He obviously adored his loquacious wife, was indulgent of Brenda—his only child—and was totally captivated by Timmy.
“So, Athen.” Hughes smiled pleasantly at her as the salad was being served. “What’s that scoundrel Dan Rossi up to these days?”
Athen all but choked on her water.
“Hughes, dear, Quentin said we’re not to talk about Athen’s job, or politics, or any of the articles he’s written on either topic.” Lydia fixed her husband with a meaningful stare from the opposite end of the table.
“Well, then, that sort of narrows the field, doesn’t it?” He chuckled. “Callie, Timmy tells us you’re a crackerjack athlete.”
Athen chose to listen rather than to participate in the conversation throughout dinner. From time to time she glanced across the table at Quentin, who ate quietly, an amused look on his face. At ten, when she could no longer keep her eyes propped open, Athen thanked her host and hostess, and promised Lydia she would, indeed, love to come again.
“Please bring Callie back next Saturday,” Brenda pressed her. “She has the makings of a superb rider. Oh, I almost forgot. I want to get in touch with Meg. Would y
ou happen to have her number with you?”
Athen scratched the number down on a piece of paper and handed it over. She was curious as to why Brenda would want to contact Meg, but was too polite to ask. Quentin and Timmy walked them to the car.
“I’ll talk to you soon,” Quentin told her as he slammed her car door.
“Wake me when we get home.” Callie yawned and Athen watched enviously as her daughter pushed the button to recline her seat.
Athen rolled down the window to let the cool night air flood the car and hoped to stay awake long enough to make the ten-minute drive to their home. She pulled in the driveway, woke Callie, and together they walked on wooden feet into their house.
“Carry me?” Callie plunked down on the steps, and Athen dimly noted that where once her daughter stretched from the first to the third steps, she now took up six.
“I’m not sure I can carry myself.” Athen stepped over her. “So unless you want to wake up in the morning with a horrendous backache, I suggest you drag your little self to bed.”
“Waaa …” Callie protested weakly before getting up. “It was a fun day, Mom. Thanks for taking me. And for letting me ride with Timmy.” She yawned again. “We had fun. And Brenda is so neat. And Sunny—that was my horse—is the best horse I ever rode.” She absently kissed in the direction of her mother’s cheek before stumbling to the stairs. “Night, Mom.”
“Sweet dreams, baby.”
Athen followed her daughter to the second floor. She grabbed a nightshirt and barely had it pulled over head before all but crashing face forward onto the bed. Blurred images drifted behind her closed eyes as she fell asleep. Baskets of discarded bottles faded into mountains of rock, which gave way to a parade with Callie and Timmy on horseback and Quentin on a backhoe. Georgia Davison’s hauntingly lovely voice drifted over the weeded lot through which the parade marched. Ms. Evelyn smiled with pride and triumph as she reviewed the marchers from a huge pile of mulch. Watching over all, from her place high on the ridge over the city, Athen’s mother tapped her feet in time to the music.
Faces spun around and around, borne on the confused winds of a twister that blew through her semiconsciousness. She started awake momentarily and, dizzy with fatigue, stretched stiff arms and legs as she sought a comfortable spot on the pillow. She opened her eyes, remembering how it had felt to rest against Quentin earlier that evening as they sat overlooking the river. His body had been hard as a rock and yet as comforting as a featherbed. For the first time in her life, she fell asleep wishing she was wrapped in the arms of a man who was not her late husband.
“WE HAD A LOVELY TIME this evening, dear.” Lydia caught Quentin’s arm as he and Timmy started back to the gatehouse. “Athen is a lovely woman, and her daughter is just delightful.”
“Thanks, Mom. Tim and I had a good time, too. Thanks for inviting them.” Quentin ruffled his son’s hair. “It’s always more fun to have a friend to share things with, right, Tim?”
Timmy nodded sleepily and leaned into his father’s chest.
“We have another early morning.” Quentin leaned over and kissed his mother on the cheek. “Thanks again for dinner, Mom.”
“You’re most welcome, son. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“At some point, I’m sure you will.” Quentin closed the door behind him and, with one arm over Timmy’s shoulder, walked back to the gatehouse.
“The sky’s real clear,” Timmy noticed. “Look at all the stars.”
Quentin stopped and looked up. “Do you remember the name of that constellation? The big one, straight overhead?”
“The Big Dipper.” Timmy yawned.
“That’s right.” Quentin nodded.
Before his father could quiz him on another cluster of stars, Tim asked, “How early do we have to get up tomorrow?”
“Not as early. You can sleep in.”
“Good. I’m beat, Dad.”
Quentin smiled and stuck his hand in his pocket for the front-door key. “I imagine you are. You worked hard today and you played hard tonight.”
“Now I’m going to sleep hard,” Tim told him.
The door unlocked and pushed open, Tim waved good night to his father and went straight for the stairs.
“I’ll see you in the morning, Tim,” Quentin called after him. Tim merely nodded, taking the steps two at a time and disappearing into the dark of the second-floor landing. Seconds later, Quentin heard Tim’s bedroom door open, then close.
He couldn’t remember the last time his son had taken himself to bed with such dispatch. He must really be exhausted, Quentin mused. He didn’t even ask to stay up and watch some TV with me.
The hall clock chimed ten thirty and Quentin went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He took out a beer and popped the top, then opened the back door and stepped out onto the deck. He leaned over the rail and took a long drink from the can. His back hurt and he’d pulled a muscle in his shoulder lifting a bucket of concrete chunks that weighed a hell of a lot more than it had looked. He knew his time would be better spent in the whirlpool upstairs than down here on the deck, alone in the dark. But the day had been a whirlwind of activity and he felt as if he were almost on some sort of sensory overload. There’d been all the people and the bustling around this morning and afternoon, though the evening hours had made up for it.
He liked having Athen here, in his family’s home, liked the feeling of sharing her with his mother and Hughes and Brenda, liked sharing them with Athen and Callie. It had felt like family. It had felt right.
It had been a long time since he’d felt that connection, and he wanted to hold on to it, savor it, for as long as possible.
He found himself envying John Moran for the woman he’d married, the child he’d fathered. While he certainly didn’t envy his untimely death, Quentin couldn’t help but respect the man. He’d had this wonderful family, a beautiful wife, a terrific kid, yet he’d put it all on the line—taken a bullet—for the sake of a child he’d never seen before, and he’d lost it all. For a moment, Quentin almost wished he’d known John. He probably would have liked him. Everyone else seemed to have. He’d been a real hero, all right.
And boy-howdy, the man sure had the golden touch when it came to women. Quentin shook his head. Dallas MacGregor—Dallas Freaking MacGregor! for crying out loud!—had been his college sweetheart. She left him—brokenhearted, no doubt, what man wouldn’t have been?—and he rebounded with Athen Moran. Damn. The guy might have died young, but, man, oh, man, John Moran had lived.
Not that I’d trade places with him, Quentin thought, and not that the man had wanted to leave it all so soon, but I have to admire him.
Quentin raised his beer can to toast the departed hero.
“Here’s to you, John Moran. You must have been one hell of a guy.” He took a few sips. “I’m sorry for you that you came to such an end. It wasn’t fair. You deserved better, and so did she. All that being said, I’m not sorry I met her.”
Quentin finished the beer, went back inside, and locked the door. He crumpled the can and tossed it into the recyling bin, turned off all the downstairs lights, and went upstairs to bed.
22
So, is my room ready yet?” Meg’s cheery voice sang through the phone.
“I’m working on it.” Athen silently resolved to do exactly that this week. “Are you planning on a trip home soon?”
“Sooner than I’d planned,” Meg announced in a rush of excitement. “Athen, the most incredible thing happened. Brenda Chapman called me at nine this morning. You’re never going to believe this, but it seems Hughes Chapman just purchased a cable TV station and he’s looking for a news anchor.”
“Seriously?” Athen bit her lip in gleeful anticipation. Brenda certainly had wasted little time between last night and this morning.
“Totally. Brenda asked me to send her some tapes by overnight delivery. If they like what they see, they’ll want me to come out to talk to them ASAP. Is this the craziest thing ever?”
“You know, Brenda and I spoke briefly at the Chapmans’ dinner party last year—the one Buddy took me to—but I never dreamed that our very casual conversation would lead to something like this. And speaking of Buddy, what’s this Brenda’s telling me? What is going on between the two of you?”
“I’m not sure that I know.” Athen hesitated.
“Brenda tells me you’re pretty tight. Why the change of heart?”
“It’s a long story.”
“One you’ll relate in detail the very second I step off the plane. Assuming that I make the cut. I told you that Buddy had eyes for you, didn’t I?”
“Yes, Meg, you did.” Athen laughed at the memory.
“Well, he’s a darling man and I think you could be very happy together.”
“I think you’re being a bit premature, since I’ve only seen him socially a few times,” Athen said levelly. But yes, he is darling, and I am happy when I’m with him.
“But you really like him, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Athen sighed. “I do, but …”
“Good. I’m glad, if for no other reason than to remind you that you have a whole life ahead of you. I’m glad you’re seeing someone, and I’m particularly happy that it’s Quentin. He’s still quite a catch.”
“I’m not so sure I want to catch him or anyone else, but I will admit that I enjoy the time I spend with him.”
“You make me crazy. What more could you possibly want? He’s bright and funny, and you may not have noticed, but he’s pretty hot.”
“Can it, Meg.” Athen laughed. “We’ll talk about it when you get out here.”
“Hopefully, that will be very soon. You’ll know the minute I know,” Meg promised. “Give my love to Callie.”
“Will do.”
What fun it would be to have Meg here, Athen mused as she washed the lunch dishes. And I will call someone to come in and finish that wallpapering. What was the name of the man who did all that work for Mrs. Kelly earlier this year? Parker? Pepper?
She dried her hands and went through the Yellow Pages. Here we go … Parsons. Norman Parsons. She entered the number and hit send. Mr. Parsons answered, and after listening to her description of what she needed, he agreed to come over on Tuesday evening.
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