“Easy, Mom. We just looked for the least glitzy vehicle in the lot. There was no contest.”
“Here, Mrs. Wagner, let me take that.” Tessa, who had automatically begun sliding out the hamper from the passenger side of the truck’s bench seat, gratefully relinquished the burden to Rick Chavez. “Will we need a blanket to sit on?” she asked Garland.
“Not us,” Garland replied smugly. “Today we’re V.I.P.’s. Guests of both the sponsor, Shelby Associates, and the Chamber Resort Association.”
“We have folding chairs,” Rick added, “with arms and cushions.”
“I supplied the cushions,” Garland said. “C’mon, we’re right up front.”
“Oh my,” Tessa said, slowing her steps. “Should I have brought earplugs?”
Garland laughed. “This is a bluegrass concert, Mom, not punk rock. No screeching amplification; no flying objects.”
Once they settled themselves and finished with the initial amenities. Garland excused herself and Tessa had a chance to covertly study the young man sitting beside her interestedly observing Garland’s participation in the setting-up activity on stage. He lounged, elbows on the armrests, fingers intertwined, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. His beautiful pale Panama hat, tilted forward on the black gloss of hair, shaded his eyes from the long slanting rays of the late afternoon sun.
Five minutes later Scott appeared, his golden head shining like a beacon. The sleeves of his indigo blue shirt were rolled up on his arms, and a long strip of braided leather secured vanilla linen trousers around his slim waist. He leaned close to Garland, his hand on her shoulder, then looked down at Tessa, smiled blindingly, and waved. His eyes then shifted to Rick Chavez, sitting beside her. His smile faded. Tessa wished she could read his mind.
“That Scott Shelby?” Rick asked.
“Yep,” Tessa said; “In all his splendor.”
“Quite a piece of work,” Rick commented.
Garland kissed Scott’s cheek and hastened back to the trio of chairs. To Rick, Tessa thought, watching her hunker down next to his chair. Their faces close, they murmured to each other. Now and then, he slowly traced with one finger the lovely arc of her cheek. Tessa glanced up. Scott, staring after Garland, seeing her sleekly paired, looked for one startling instant every one of his sixty years.
The moment passed. His shoulders straighened, the smile returned, and he extended his hand towards the young woman who glided up behind him. She had a willowy, almost ethereal look about her, too frail to bear the weight of the guitar she carried. Her dress was long and unbelted, made of a sheer, minutely pleated ivory fabric that drifted around her like mist. Tessa thought that Garland, a slim girl herself, seemed positively robust in comparison.
Scott escorted her to the high stool in front of the microphone and tenderly helped her up on to it, where she perched, light as thistledown, her long ash-colored hair flowing around her like watered silk. She snuggled the guitar against her like a baby, stroking it soundlessly as Scott introduced her with a few well-chosen words. She waited for the applause to die down. Her eyes, lifted now to her audience, were huge, and of so pale a blue they appeared other-worldly. Her face was very white, and except for the soft full mouth, her features were sharp, almost pinched.
When Kayla Farrell finally spoke into the microphone, introducing her songs, Tessa was unable to make sense of her soft twangy accent. But when she began to sing, her expressive bell-clear soprano drew a sigh from the assembled crowd, and for the next hour, as her voice switched effortlessly from high and pure and true to a lowdown, raunchy growl, the audience nestled, awestruck, in the palm of her small hand.
During the break, Kayla’s male backup group— a tongue-in-cheek nod. Garland said, to the traditionally male-dominated bluegrass style—played as the audience picnicked, their hard-driving performance sound relaxing into down-home rhythms.
“What happened to the guy featured on the festival posters?” Tessa asked as she portioned out the chicken, eggs, and tomato slices on the fancy new paper plates.
“Kayla happened,” Garland said, grinning. “You could call it the sing-out at the O.K. Corral. By the end of the first rehearsal, he knew he’d met his match and then some. So he went out, got himself falling-down drunk, and staggered back accusing Scott of trying to sabotage his career. A lot of the terms he used to describe him with began with f, the kindest of which was ‘faggot.’ “
“Scott may be a lot of things,” Tessa said, “but faggot definitely isn’t one of them.”
“I doubt if accuracy had much bearing on the choice of words, Mom. Anyway, he was gone by nightfall, and no one seems to miss him much.”
“Shelby least of all, I’d say,” Rick drawled.
Tessa and Garland followed his eyes towards the cottonwood grove at the far left of the stage area. Seated in the shade were Scott and Kayla, she at ease in a director’s chair, Scott lounging at her feet smiling up at her. As they watched, he reached for one of her hands, turned it slowly, and placed a kiss in its palm.
“Off with the old; on with the new,” Garland murmured. She seemed amused.
Tessa, thinking of herself and Marion, wasn’t. “Yeah, and there’s no fool like an old fool,” she said sourly. “If what you said about that girl is true, she’ll strip him clean.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. Mom. In this case I’d say they’ve both met their match ... be sort of interesting to see how this turns out . . .”
Hearing her voice trail off, Tessa turned towards Garland, seeking the source of her distraction. Rick’s licking of his fingers, like a fastidious tomcat, appeared to be mesmerizing her. Thinking that the heat in her daughter’s sherry-colored eyes could damn near singe the moist pink tip of his tongue, Tessa realized the little scene provided the answer to both of her earlier questions: not only how Rick would cope with the chicken, but how Garland had spent the preceding night.
“I’ll keep you posted, dear,” Tessa said dryly.
“Did you say something?” Garland murmured.
“Not worth repeating, darling. How about another deviled egg?”
Tessa leaned back in her folding chair and sipped her wine, wishing she could talk to Jed. Suddenly the sense of loss hit her so hard her fingers clenched on the plastic wineglass stem, tipping the contents. Tears filled her eyes.
Garland looked up, smiling. “You sure make a devil of an egg, Mom . . .” Her smile faded. “Mom? Is anything wrong? You aren’t upset about Scott and his new ladylove, are you?”
Garland’s guess was so far from the mark that Tessa was able to laugh as she knuckled away the wetness. “Lord, no,” she said, rummaging in her bag, “it’s the sun slanting into my eyes. If I had any sense, I’d’ve put on my dark glasses when we first arrived . . . ah! That’s better.”
“Tessa? Tessa Wagner?” She peered up at a male face hovering above her. “Alan Baumgartner,” he said, “and this is my wife, Betsy. We were wondering if you still have that palomino mare you told me about. I tried to reach you by phone.”
Tessa pushed her sunglasses down on her nose. “Alan! Nice to see you again . . . and nice to meet you, Betsy. I’ve been in and out a lot lately,” she said after introducing them to Garland and Rick. “I keep putting off getting an answering machine, but I guess I’ve put it off long enough. Yes, the mare still calls Skywalk Ranch home ... if you’d like to see her.”
They would, they said, and a meeting was arranged for the following Wednesday. After they left, Tessa turned to Garland for advice. “They don’t know much about horses, and if they decide to buy her, I’ll want them to have a veterinarian check her out, for my protection as well as theirs. It’d be best if it’s someone up here they can turn to in case of problems. I wondered if the vet you told me about— “
“Matter of fact,” Garland said, “I saw him again just the other day. Seems he started his practice here only two years ago. He got his training at Cornell, loves the mountains and skiing, and settled on Tellu
ride because it offered the best opportunity for work and play. Trouble is, during the summer he’s got almost more work than he can handle—especially with horses.” She laughed. “You should have seen his eyes light up when I told him about my helping you at Skywalk. He wants me to work in his clinic during vacations. How’s that for serendipity?”
Tessa, who didn’t know what that was, merely smiled.
“This guy ... is he single?” Rick inquired gruffly.
“He has the prettiest wife you ever saw, two picture-book kids—”
“And a great big beautiful golden retriever,” Rick finished in a mutter.
Garland eyed him coolly. “Actually, the dog I saw sprawled on his front porch the day I interviewed him was an unattractive, very old mongrel who broke wind a lot.”
“Interviewed?” Tessa said.
“Well, you know, like I told you last week, someday he might want a partner . . . and by then that dog won’t be around anymore.”
Rick Chavez frowned. “Garland, I really think we should talk— “
“Don’t start. Rick.” The warning in her eyes was succeeded by relief as applause broke out around them, heralding the second half of the concert.
At the conclusion, after two encores and a fruitless cry for a third. Garland left to help with the postconcert chores, telling her mother not to expect her until Monday.
“You’re staying here again tonight?” Tessa asked.
“The festival isn’t over until tomorrow evening, Mom. There are two more performances, and by the time we wrap everything up I’ll be too beat to drive home, much less eat anything when I get there.”
Rick stayed behind with Tessa to help her pack up the remains of the picnic. “Garland told me your fried chicken was special ... I thought she was just being loyal, but she was right. She usually is,” he added resignedly.”
“But not always,” Tessa said, thinking that maybe this guy had more to offer than a truly outstanding array of physical attributes.
Rick flicked a wary look at her as they walked towards the parking area. “No, not always.” He adjusted his longer gait to hers. “Garland’s boss is giving her next weekend off, Mrs. Wagner, and I thought ... I’m hoping she’ll agree to drive down with me to meet my folks.”
“Yes?” .
“Well, I’m also hoping that would be all right with you.”
“Does that matter?”
Rick effortlessly lifted the cooler over the tailgate into the truck bed. He paused,-staring at it, then turned to face her. “Not technically maybe, but yes, it matters. To me, anyway.”
She thought a minute, then stuck out her hand and told him to call her Tessa. “Does that answer your question?” she asked.
He grinned at her, displaying an enormous number of enviably even, very white teeth. Tessa was glad she had put her sunglasses on. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I guess it does.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Monday, Monday ...
Wasn’t there a song by that name, somewhere back in the sixties? Tessa shook her head. Whatever it was, Monday always signaled a return to workaday life, and this particular Monday started the week in which the hearing on Barry’s estate was scheduled.
Jed said he’d get back to me.
But he hadn’t. Not yet anyway.
Has he ever let me down?
No . . . but there was always a first time.
Tessa stared at the phone on the wall. Her fingers itched to dial his number. Instead, she snatched her hat off the peg on the back of the kitchen door and strode out to the corral. The Baumgartners were coming Wednesday to look at Banner; she’d better make sure the little mare hadn’t forgotten her manners.
Jed parked his pickup near the kitchen door, knowing that if Tessa were home, that was the door she’d come to first. He also knew he should have called first, which put him even more on edge. There was no answer to his knock.
As he stood wondering what to do next, Plume came trundling towards him from the vicinity of the barn, tail gently waving, which meant she was somewhere in the area. Jed walked towards the corrals. Plume at his heels, and as he rounded the comer of the house he saw Miguel’s spare figure faced away from him near the training corral’s entrance. Inside, cantering sedately around the ring, was a pretty palomino with Tessa astride, her streaked-blond ponytail jouncing gently against her blue-shirted back. Rounding the far end, she caught sight of Jed, slowly pulled the horse up, and stopped at the gate. Miguel stepped forward as she slid off.
“Perfecto,” Jed heard her say to him. “For the Baumgartners, that is. For me, she’s so placid and well-mannered she damn near puts me to sleep.” Tessa handed the reins to Miguel and walked forward, eyes fixed on Jed, her steps oddly restrained, almost as if she were hobbled.
I’d forgotten how blue her eyes are, Jed thought.
“I’d about given you up,” Tessa said. “The hearing’s on Thursday.”
“Not anymore it isn’t.”
“Rescheduled?” Tessa said in a despairing tone, wanting it over with.
Jed shook his head. “Canceled.”
“What?”
“The hearing’s been canceled ... or rather, about to be. I’ve just come from Lloyd’s.”
“I don’t understand. Are you saying he had a change of heart?”
“You could say that.”
“Damn it, Jed, stop talking in riddles!”
He gestured with his head. “Come on out to my truck. Got something to show you.”
She followed him, waiting silently as he reached into the bed of the battered vehicle and lifted out a large flat package wrapped in what looked like an old mattress pad. He carefully unfolded it and propped the revealed large rectangle of mounting board against him for her inspection. It was a portrait of a middle-aged woman, whose large head seemed at odds with the trim, mid-nineteenth-century garbed torso below.
“Hannah Comfort Wagner,” Jed said. “Great-grandmother of Barry, Jack, and Lloyd, in all her hazel-eyed glory.”
The grim-faced pioneer woman who stared out into the morning sunlight was hardly glorious, but there was no question about the color of the eyes.
“My God,” Tessa murmured. “How on earth did you—” She broke off, leaned over for a closer inspection, then looked up at Jed. “It’s not the original, I see that now, but how— “
“I took a couple of days off,” Jed said. “Pop’s been— “ He clamped his lips shut. “Let’s just say I wanted a change of scene. My geneticist friend sent me the information you wanted, but reading it over ... well, it was so damn technical. Seemed to me that for someone like Lloyd, a more dramatic kind of proof was needed. I thought about your reasons for not going to see the Wagners, but I couldn’t see how they applied to me, so I flew down.”
Tessa gaped at him. “To Texas?”
“It’s not like I was going to the moon, Tessa. A few hours down, an overnight stay, and a few hours back.”
“But this,” she said, making a sweeping gesture towards the color reproduction. “How ever did you get them to loan it to you?”
Jed fell silent. He ducked his head to collect his thoughts. “Well, the first thing I did was phone them. I had the address—they’re among the handful Pop sends Christmas cards to— and Information gave me the number. I told them Pop wasn’t doing all that well, and I was thinking maybe it was time the town did something to recognize the contributions of the early Cottonwood ranchers.” He cleared his throat. “I mentioned seeing this portrait in their parlor when I was a kid, and asked if they’d be willing to let me have a copy made for exhibition. They were, and I did, and this is it.”
“But this copy is so good—how did you have time— “
“Had it done the same afternoon. First a color photo was taken, than reproduced to scale, then mounted on this heavy board. The best part is the other side— I hadn’t noticed it, but the guy who photographed it did.”
Jed turned it around. There, in precise copperplate script, was a
description of the subject:name, address, approximate weight and height, hair (light brown, gray streaks), eye color (hazel with a dark honey tone), and brown mole next to the right upper lip.
“When I came back, I stopped in at the Montrose library to look the artist up. Seems he was journeyman painter from Kansas City who painted up a lot of torsos during the winter months— male and female, adults and children--then toured the west all summer drumming up commissions, making sketches and noting physical details. Then he returned to his studio in the fall and painted in particular heads on his generic torsos.”
Jed paused and tapped the edge of the board. “It was this description more than the painted eyes themselves that took the wind out of Lloyd’s sails.”
“My God,” Tessa said again. She shook her head, then looked up at Jed wonderingly. “You lied.”
Jed started. “What the hell are you— “
“You lied to that old couple, Jed Bradburn! Cottonwood isn’t planning anything in recognition of the early ranchers—I’d be one of the first to know if anything like that was in the works.”
“What I said was maybe it was time we did, and if you ask me, it is. That’s hoping, not lying.”
“You misled them, then.”
“That’s still not lying, Tessa. How the Wagners chose to interpret it is their problem.” He pulled his nose in frowning exasperation. “The point is—”
“That Lloyd’s bluff was called and all those lingering suspicions finally put to rest,” Tessa blurted. ‘Tm sorry, Jed. I should never have implied there was anything, you know, questionable about how you went about . . . it’s just . . . well, you’ve always been so damn saintly it kind of took me by surprise—” She broke off in embarrassed confusion. “Thank you,” she finished simply. “I know I don’t deserve all you’ve done.”
As she stepped towards him, Jed drew back, reached into his truck for the mattress pad, and draped it back over the Xerox copy of the portrait. “I did it for Garland and Gavin,” he muttered, “not you.” He thrust it at her. “Here, they might like to have it.”
Colorado High Page 25