by Laura Crum
The Bohemian Cafe is not what it sounds like. The name suggests something intimate, continental and sophisticated; in fact, the large, high-ceilinged room with big old fashioned French-paned windows-actually the dining room of a hotel that dates from stage-stop days-looks simple and countrified. The historic bar reminds me of a movie set for the saloon scene in a Western, and all the furnishings are casually eclectic. Worn Oriental rugs cover the wooden floor in patches, Van Gogh mixes with Charles Russell on the walls, and Victorian lamps argue with saddles hung from the ceiling. It's great.
Lonny was sitting at the bar when I walked in and stood up when he saw me. He wore what I had come to recognize as standard dress clothes for him-pressed jeans, an Oxford-cloth shirt, and clean cowboy boots. As a young man, Lonny's face would no doubt have been called homely; his big nose hooked toward his bony jaw and his rough, craggy features had a suggestion of Abraham Lincoln. At forty-six (we'd gotten to the stage of telling each other our ages), he was growing to look distinguished (I thought), and distinguished or homely, his face was illuminated by a pair of greenish eyes filled with life, humor and intelligence-eyes that seemed to brim over at times with an openhearted zest for living.
Now was one of those times, and I smiled up at him, warmed and charmed as I often was by his enthusiasm. I'm tall for a woman, but Lonny's six-foot-two made me tilt my head back to look him in the eyes. "Hi," I told him.
"Hi." He grinned appreciatively at me. "You look like summer personified. Care for a drink?"
"Sure." I seated myself on a bar stool and looked around with pleasure. The bar at the Bohemian Cafe looked exactly the way a bar was supposed to look---ceiling covered in dollar bills, walls paneled in dark brown wood with trophy heads and the kind of "amusing" signs that bars seem to collect over every square inch of space, bottles ranged in mirrored rows behind the old rosewood bar with its brass rail, and the sort of quiet, restful ambience that more modern bars never seem to have. Late evening sunlight slanted in through a west-facing window and dust motes floated like golden specks in the air. Two other people chatted softly at a table in the corner.
I took a sharp, lime-flavored sip of my vodka gimlet and felt relaxation and contentment wash over me in a rush. Smiling gratefully at Lonny, I said, "Don't you love the cocktail hour?"
His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled back. "If it's done right, appreciated, yes."
"Having a drink with somebody, a little conversation, at the point where late afternoon turns into evening-I don't know, it doesn't seem to go into words, but there's something about it."
We both took sips of our drinks in appreciative silence. After a second Lonny asked me, "So what's new?"
I told him about Casey Brooks' barn full of colicked horses, his suspicion of poison, and finished up with the information that I was planning to go to a cutting tomorrow in the Central Valley. I didn't mention that I'd invited Bret to go with me; Lonny knew Bret slightly and always seemed to regard Bret and my relationship with puzzled, if accepting, incomprehension, but I felt a need not to arouse any possible jealousies. Since I wasn't yet sure how involved I planned to get with Lonny, I didn't particularly want to deal with any possessiveness he might feel.
In his turn Lonny told me about a practice roping he'd gone to that afternoon-he was starting to teach me the basics of team roping-and we talked about his two horses, Burt and Pistol. I'd been his veterinarian for a little more than a year now, and had gone on several rides with him since we'd been dating, so the conversation, as long as it stayed on horses, flowed easily.
It was only when we'd finished dinner and were considering coffee and dessert, and he asked me if I'd like to have the coffee at his place, that things got sticky.
An invitation to his place-there were definite implications in that. I'd never been in his house before, our dates had involved meeting at restaurants or riding horses. An invitation to "come up for coffee" was surely an invitation to bed.
It wasn't unreasonable on his part. We'd been dating a month and he'd clearly indicated he wanted to be more involved. I didn't fear a one-night stand and a rejection; it was obvious, I admitted to myself, that I was preparing to be involved with him-just look at the way I'd fixed up my bedroom. The problem was more subtle than that.
"All right," I said lightly, meeting his eyes. "For coffee."
Lonny's house proved to be unique. It was hidden from his barn, up a steep hill and behind a screen of oak trees, so not only had I never been in it, I'd never even seen it. I don't know what I'd expected, but the house surprised me. It was a round house, a decagon, Lonny told me, the whole place arranged around a central room, which was also round-the hub, as it were.
The room we walked into was a sort of enclosed porch/ living room, two stories high, with giant windows looking out at the oak trees. Terra cotta tile floors, natural pine walls and ceiling, and a staircase running up the far side to a balcony that overhung the room all took my eye favorably.
"This is nice," I smiled at Lonny.
"You like it? I designed and built it myself. It's a little different."
"It's terrific."
I sat at the kitchen table and looked around while Lonny made coffee. An open archway led into the round central room, which was carpeted and cozy with books and a desk. Most of the furniture was covered in Navajo patterned fabrics, which reflected the same quiet, Southwestern color scheme as the rest of the house. It was gentle and relaxing-a house to be comfortable in. I had the feeling Lonny had created it as the restful center to an active life.
He handed me coffee in a sand-colored mug and said, "Would you like to sit in the living room?"
I got up and we settled ourselves, as if we'd planned it, on the couch. The coffee was good, fresh ground and strong, and Lonny's shoulder was just touching mine. His face was quiet, almost withdrawn, and I had no idea what was on his mind.
As if he'd read my thoughts, he looked at me and said, "So what are you thinking?"
"That's a loaded question," I warned him.
He looked straight at me. "So, what are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking it looks like we're getting ready to go to bed, and I'm still not sure."
Lonny put his coffee cup down and took mine and put it down, too. His hands, as he turned my face to his, were gentle and demanding at the same time. His mouth met mine tenderly, but not tentatively, and the kiss grew in intensity until we were devouring each other. I swam in his desire, the strength and the warmth of it, in his hands caressing my back and waist.
It didn't take long. Our bodies lit sparks from each other. Lonny ran his hand down my thigh and groaned. Burying his face in my chest, he said softly, "I want you." It was there in his voice, an intensity of feeling both completely male and still vulnerable. He wasn't trying to hide.
My body cried out for him, but my mind was warning me. Wait a minute. Is this what you want? All my reservations raised their heads.
"Lonny, I just don't know."
"Don't know what?"
"Whether this is what I want." I forced myself to sit up. "I mean, let's face it, there's AIDS and everything else out there and, much though I like you, I just don't know you that well. I hardly know anything about you. I don't even know what you do for a living," I said lamely.
"I'm retired. Semi-retired, anyway." Lonny grinned and kissed me again, and for some long minutes I sank into the powerful physical tenderness. My arms pulled him to me, and I could feel his body coil, the long, strong muscles over his back tensing.
"Is this what you want?" The tone in his voice was fierce and still gentle.
"I don't know. My body does. My mind wants me to be careful."
There was a long moment of quiet. When he spoke, his voice sounded strained. "As far as AIDS and all that goes, I don't actually know. I've never been tested. I've never had a symptom and I've never slept with anyone who turned out to have it-as far as I know. In all fairness, though, there is one thing I ought to tell you. I'm married."
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br /> He must have felt my body jerk, but he went on steadily. "I've been separated for two years, but I'm not divorced."
I sat up straighter and looked at him. "So what does that mean?"
"I'm not sure. I didn't think it was fair to spring it on you later."
My mind was going double-speed now, catching up to my body and outdistancing it in the stretch. "That would have been a shock," I said blankly.
The voice in my head was shouting, Steer clear of this one, Gail; nothing worse than a man with a wife. Stay independent. Don't get hurt. "Maybe we do need to get to know each other a little better," I added.
Lonny didn't say anything. His arm was still around me and I could feel the warmth and solid comfort of him. I wondered if he was regretting his impulse toward honesty.
"All right," he said at last, "let's try. How about you? Are you available?"
"Available?" I hesitated. "Well, I'm free. No entanglements. To be honest, I kind of like it that way."
"You mean you don't want a relationship?"
I snuggled my body more comfortably against him. How could anybody not want this? "It's hard to explain. I do and I don't. I've got a strong sense of independence; I'm uncomfortable needing anyone. There're a lot of reasons."
Lonny squeezed me gently and I could feel his free hand playing up and down my arm. It sent corresponding shivers up and down my spine. "So how about us?" he asked me.
I sighed. "I don't know." A picture of Kris and Rick Griffith with their seven-year-old daughter standing between them jumped into my mind; was I so sure I didn't want a life like that with a man I loved and admired? I'd never made a conscious decision to stay solitary; it was more that I'd become self-sufficient out of necessity after my parents had died, and at this point I was accustomed to my independence. Making my own decisions, accommodating no one, was a habit, a habit I wasn't sure I wanted to change. Still, there were evenings when the house could seem very empty, when I drank an extra glass of wine just to hurry the unconscious peace of sleep. I could use a lover-some of the time, anyway.
"If I do start seeing you, what about your wife?"
Lonny's face looked sad. "I don't know. It's a problem. I can't seem to make up my mind to get the divorce. She owns half of everything-this place, my business. I can hardly stand to let it all go."
"Is that the only reason you're not divorced?" I asked gently.
"I'm not sure. We weren't happy for a long time. Eventually she found a boyfriend and moved out. I used to want her back. Hurt pride, mostly, I think." He gave me a rueful smile. "It's been a long two years."
I nodded understandingly. I sympathized with what he was saying, but I still couldn't help wondering if financial ties were all he had to his wife. No two ways about it; a man with a wife was not a good bet.
Disentangling myself gently, I stood up.
"So it's no go." Lonny was still sitting on the couch, looking up at me.
"No, not necessarily. I just need to think about it." His eyes were looking straight into mine. They were greenish eyes, direct and intent, the most honest-looking eyes I'd ever seen in a man. "I want you, Gail, more than I can remember wanting a woman. I want to love you."
The look that passed between us then was charged enough to ignite wood, let alone flesh. It might have, too, except that a cat exploded into Lonny's lap. That's what it looked like, anyway. A big pinkish beige cat erupted from somewhere, leaping into and then out of Lonny's lap, and fizzed and bounced around the room like an incautiously opened champagne bottle, batting at imaginary opponents, the pupils of his eyes black and quarter-sized.
"Dammit, Sam," Lonny said affectionately, swatting at him when he whizzed by.
I smiled. "Saved by the cat. Another minute and I'd have been dragging you off to bed like a cavewoman."
"I'm willing."
"I know. But it'd better wait. At least for a while." I bent down, kissed him lightly on the lips, and headed for the door. Halfway there I stopped to pet the cat, who bumped against my leg. "Thanks, buddy. I never would have made it without you."
Lonny was still laughing as I shut the door behind me.
Chapter SIX
At 6:00 A.M. the next morning I was dressing for the cutting. Acid-washed Wrangler jeans, a loose deep blue T-shirt with a row of little buttons that could be left open at the throat, and my newest cowboy boots, lace-up packers in a gunmetal gray. Studying myself in the mirror, I felt satisfied. The T-shirt made my eyes look bluer than usual, and my figure was trim in the jeans. Hoo-aw, as Casey would say.
Upstairs I found that Bret was already awake; maybe he'd never gone to sleep. He certainly hadn't been back when I'd gotten home. He hadn't dressed up for the cutting, I noticed, his faded jeans and once-bright-red, now-dark-pink polo shirt had seen better days. Despite being slightly bedraggled, he was still handsome. His olive skin and Italian good looks seemed enhanced by old, scruffy clothes, rather than the reverse.
As I made coffee in the kitchen I wondered briefly why Bret held no sexual attraction for me. Too much familiarity, maybe? The certain knowledge that he was of the "love 'ern and leave 'ern" school, and I had no particular desire to be loved and left. Either way, I thought, as I handed him a cup of coffee and smiled at his sleepy expression, looks weren't the answer. Bret had looks to satisfy the most discriminating.
Driving over the coastal hills that separate the Monterey Bay from the Central Valley, Bret and I were both quiet-the comfortable silence of long acquaintance. My mind was on Lonny-what I wanted from him, what I didn't want. The whole issue was confusing me, I had to admit. If I didn't want Lonny, did I want anybody in my life? And if I did want Lonny, did I want to deal with the question of a not-yet-ex-wife?
Shaking my head, as if I could brush away these frustrating problems like gnats, I took in the sunny morning and the bright yellow-gold grassy hills that rolled and tumbled away before us to the valley floor. Everything was open space and blue sky. I sucked in a deep breath and smiled, and Bret met my eyes and smiled back. What the hell, I thought, what the hell. It was good to be alive.
Highway 152 wound its way out of the coastal hills and down to the valley as the fall sunshine warmed up the morning air, softening the sharp acid green of the alfalfa fields, gentling the gray and dusty junkyards, brushing the flat, loud billboards, and tinting the rusting travel trailers and sagging shacks a mellower shade. California's Central Valley slipped by outside the windows of the pickup, looking as good as it ever did.
I'd lived for five years in the Valley when I was doing my graduate work at U.C. Davis, and I knew its moods. Oven-like in the summer, cold and clammy with tuley fog in the winter, often windy in the spring-a soft, sunny day like this one was exceptional good fortune. Even so, I liked the Valley; it wasn't pretty by anybody's standards, particularly those of someone born and raised in a coastal town like Santa Cruz, but to me it felt familiar and comfortable.
I understood the point behind the alfalfa fields, the grain towers, the Holstein cattle, the almond orchards, the car graveyards. The good straight roads ran like rulers, the towns were bare and simple, and if there wasn't beauty, there was, at least, sense.
An hour later, we were chugging sedately down the palm-tree-lined main street of Los Borregos, a typical Valley town with a slightly shabby, left-behind-in-the-fifties air, and took the turnoff to the fairgrounds where the cutting was to be held.
The truck bumped down a dirty entry road and I pulled into a field that was a parking lot for the day. Trucks and trailers in all colors and sizes were parked every which way on the mowed grass, and horses were everywhere-tied to trailers, nickering to their companions, being ridden at a fast trot toward the arena, led by men and women whose spurs went clink, clink, clink with every step. The men were mostly clean-shaven, their hair short and neat under cowboy hats, their jeans pressed and their shirts crisp. The women wore cowboy hats, too; they mingled with the men indistinguishably, as equals, their waists cinched tight by trophy buckles as large as th
ose of their male counterparts. The whole scene was full of movement, shouted greetings, the thud of hooves on grass, the jingle of bits and spurs. In the bright morning air, it felt like an old-time circus setting up in a field.
Getting out of the truck, we threaded our way through the parked rigs and the loping horses, keeping an eye out for Casey and Melissa. Bret said hi to several cowboys.
"Don't you miss being a part of this?" I asked him, gesturing at the sunny jumble of horses and people.
"Sometimes. It's a lot of work, though. You're just looking at the fun part; you're not seeing all those 5:00 A.M. mornings when your hands and feet get numb, galloping horses in the fog, all those evenings you're so sore it's hard to get to sleep." He grinned. "Taking it all in all, I don't miss it much."
His glance roved through the crowd. "There's Melissa," he pointed.
Sure enough, Melissa was walking toward us, looking like a cowboy's dream in a tight, satiny pink blouse that emphasized her large breasts, a belt with a huge silver buckle around her waist. With her blonde hair curling and frothing around her face and her eyes outlined in several interesting colors, she was a Barbie doll come to life. Not for the first time I wondered why she chose to present herself as a cheap toy; she seemed to have more on the ball than that.
"Hi." Melissa gave us a welcoming smile, and Bret grinned back at her with his guaranteed-to-devastate-'em version.
"Casey's saddling the horses up," Melissa said, specifically to me, though her eyes drifted to Bret. "We're parked over there." She waved a hand at a long aluminum trailer where Casey could be seen swinging a saddle up on a sorrel horse. "I'm on my way for coffee."
In a minute she was disappearing into the crowd, Bret's eyes following her round bottom until it was out of sight.