Gathering String

by Mimi Johnson

  On the drive home, Tess asked, “OK, what’s the deal with Elizabeth? She insisted on calling me Teresa, even after I told her I prefer Tess. And she called you John. Does anyone else call you that?”

  “Only my mother when she was really pissed off about something, but other than that …” Jack shrugged. “Betty makes a point of being a very formal lady.”

  “Yes, and I see that you and the Governor both seem to delight in refusing to use her full name.” A small smile played out his dimples. “Somehow they seem to be an unlikely couple, her and Swede. You realize she calls him Swan?”

  “Yeah, his mother does too.”

  “But aren’t they two such different women? Augusta’s all down-to-earth farm-woman.” Jack glanced over, pleased with her assessment. “She was talking about how her first paying jobs were hoeing beans and detasseling corn. She has no idea how fascinating and charming she is. But I felt sorry for her other son, Peter. He’s awfully closed in. I don’t think he said more than two words all night. Is he always like that?”

  “Pretty much. Their dad was awfully hard on both the boys. Swede learned to take him on but Pete, I suppose, tried to fly under the radar by staying quiet. And he still is.”

  He gave an easy swing of the wheel, coasting into the drive by her little Beaverdale brick house and killed the lights. For a second she just looked at him, considering, then asked, “Nightcap?”

  “I’d have a beer if you’ve got one.”

  She flipped on the entryway lights, pointed the way to the living room, and ran up the stairs calling, “Just let me lose this jacket and the heels. Make yourself comfortable.”

  By the time she came in carrying a tray with his beer, her B&B and a sliced, ripe pear fanned on a pretty plate, he had lit the gas fireplace and turned on some music. With his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, he sat on the floor, his back against the couch, one arm resting on a raised knee, thumbing through an album of her photographs he’d found on the bookshelf and put on the coffee table.

  “You’re an artist,” he said as she put the tray down, his dark eyes lingering over a page of her work.

  “No, I’m just a photographer,” she laughed as she said it, but he shook his head.

  “What an understatement. They’re art, not newspaper photographs.”

  She cocked her head, looking down at the face of an old woman he’d been studying. “I took that on Pine Ridge, working a story about the alcohol problem on the reservation. But you’re right. That was a shot I took for myself, not the paper. She’s beautiful, don’t you think?”

  “She is the way you caught her.” Tess dropped down next to him carefully in her black dress. “Tell me something?” She took a sip from her glass waiting. “Why does someone with your talent go from the Washington Tribune to the Des Moines Record? Isn’t it usually the other way around?”

  Her eyes narrowed, knowing it was bound to come up eventually, and asking in return, “How’d you know I’d been at the Trib?”

  He shifted uneasily. “I googled you. And I was amazed at the pictures that came up. I was curious …”

  “No, it’s OK.” She was relieved that she had an opening. “I actually looked you up in our clips.” They each laughed.

  “Well, obviously we both know how to find things out. So you read about what happened to my family and all?” She nodded as he took a sip of his beer. “I’m glad, really, that I don’t have to explain. It’s a tough story to tell, and I hate the look people get, that awkward, sympathetic, my-god-what-do-I-say-to-this-poor-guy look. It’s easier, knowing you’ve already read the details.”

  “Do you never talk about it?”

  He frowned a little. “Not on first dates. It’s kind of a conversation killer, if you know what I mean.” She nodded. “So, what about you and the Tribune? No clips to help me out with that one. Was it a round of layoffs or …” He took a slice of pear, waiting.

  Except for her closest girlfriend, she didn’t talk about what happened. Usually she told people she’d just gotten sick of the expense and congestion of the city. Sometimes she lied and said she’d been laid off, knowing she’d easily be believed. But looking at Jack now, she tried to be honest. “I was in a relationship that wasn’t very good for me. We reached a point of something having to give and, after a bit of a struggle, I realized it was going to be me.” She smiled crookedly.

  He was watching her closely. “I’m sorry. He broke your heart.”

  “No,” she looked away to the fire, and sipped her drink thoughtfully. “I knew I should never have started with him. It’s fairer to say I broke my own heart. But I recovered, scarred but wiser.”

  He nodded and clinked her glass. “Same here.”

  “Good.” She gave him a funny, sly grin. “So tell me about you and the ‘blond named Bambi.’”

  “Ah-h,” he groaned and hung his head. “That damn column, ‘Jack Westphal, all grown up,’ but still too wet behind the ears to know to keep his private life away from a newspaper columnist. What a disaster! I can’t tell you how long it’s taken me to live that down. Obviously I still haven’t.” He looked over at her, chuckling a little. “She was sweet, Bambi. But she dumped me after about six months of neglect, took the dog, and married a construction foreman. Last I heard, she was still crazy about him and had two kids.”

  “And since?”

  “No one noteworthy. Like I said, I’ve kept myself busy.” She raised her eyebrows, and reluctantly he added, “Well, no more live-ins anyway. You?”

  She shook her head. “Just a few dates. I needed to be on my own for awhile.”

  His eyes seemed to grow darker as he looked at her, then he grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet with him. They faced a framed picture on the wall. It was a forest, colors deliberately muted, and then in tiny, painstakingly thin brushstrokes, painted back in with soft, dreamy watercolor. The rainy landscape seemed to drip in the frame.

  “This is amazing,” he said, still holding her arm. “I can almost feel the rain when I look at it. But somehow the tone is a little sad. Lonely maybe.” She looked up at him, surprised. “I can see it’s yours. Tell me about it. Where is it? How’d you do it?”

  “It’s a picture I took on Vancouver Island.”

  “But it’s also painting,” he said and she nodded. “So how?”

  “Well, it was an experiment really. I’d been reading about an old technique of fading down the colors to just the barest trace, and then painting them back in. It kind of pained me to do it at first; the greens of the original are so vibrant. But the more I worked it, the better it felt. I used an easel and watercolors and painted every single line.” She pointed to the canopy of leaves. “I had the best time playing those out. I can’t tell you how many different shades of green I used.”

  He pointed to a shadowy figure, faintly marked with a few dark lines, in the misty background. “Just someone who wandered in,” her voice was very soft. “At first, I thought it ruined the shot, but it turned out he really made the whole thing.”

  Jack shook his head, “It’s such detailed work. It must have taken forever.”

  She nodded, “But I enjoyed every second. I got lost in it.”

  “I can understand that. It’s what you love.” He looked down at her. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. “Why aren’t you doing this kind of thing full time?”

  “Oh, little things, house payments, health insurance, food and clothing.”

  “Right.” He grinned. “But this is fabulous stuff, and here it sits, in this little house. People ought to see it. You’ve got to get it out there. Haven’t you ever thought …”

  “Sure, of course I’ve dreamt about things like …” Tess felt a blush creeping across her cheeks, and didn’t give voice to them, saying instead, “Realistically there’s only so much time I can give it. I need to make a living.”

  “I'm not buying that." She looked up in surprise, and his eyes were intense as he looked down at her. “Tale
nt like this deserves everything you can give it, so screw making a living. Life is meant for taking risks."

  "Come on, Jack," She laughed, suddenly uneasy.

  "I'm serious. One second it's all in front of you, and the next it's fading away in the rearview mirror. You'd better get after it, because it would be a sin to let work like this just be a hobby. Dig in and see where it takes you." She stayed silent. He turned and set his empty beer glass down with a glance at his watch. When he looked at her again, he shrugged. “I'm sorry. It’s pretty late for the John Westphal, 'Take a Shot,' speech. Blame it on too much time spent with basketball coaches.”

  She already knew better. If anyone knew that the only certainty in life was uncertainty, it was this man. “No," she had to clear her throat. "I’m flattered.”

  He smiled and picked the book up off the table to put it back on the shelf, but as he started to flip it shut, another shot caught his eye and his breath. “Holy God, how did you ever get in so close? It looks like you’re right under it.” It was a picture of a shattered airplane, resting heavily on its splintered wing, engulfed in flames.

  “Ah, well, actually that was only as far away as I got.” His brows drew together in question. “A few seconds earlier, I was in it.” His mouth fell open. “An aggressive landing,” she explained.

  “When?”

  “Three years ago," she paused, thinking for a second, “in another three days. It happened near Rapid City, during some Midwestern flooding."

  He nodded. “Right, we had a mess here, too.” He looked back down at it. “Were you hurt badly?”

  “Physically? Not too bad. I was certainly in the best shape of the three of us who were on board. Emotionally?” His eyes met hers as she hesitated. “I didn’t make the best decisions for awhile.”

  She took the book and put it away, while he leaned over and grabbed his jacket off the sofa. “That’s a hell of a story. I’d like to hear more sometime.” She just smiled, and he looked at his watch again. “Well, I’d better go.” His arm went around her shoulders, his fingers lightly brushing the smooth skin of her shoulder in her sleeveless dress. They started toward the entryway. “Right?”

  “I suppose so. You won’t be going back to Terrace Hill, will you?” The governor, his mother and his wife had all mentioned that they’d love to have Jack stay the night.

  He shook his head. Opening the door, he looked up at the bright stars in a sky that hinted of spring. “It’s a great night for a drive. I’ll enjoy it.” But looking back down at her, holding his jacket over his shoulder, he was obviously reluctant to leave.

  “So,” he said softly, and his hand moved down from her shoulder to her back, and pulled her close. The kiss was soft, and Tess felt her heart thump harder as his mouth moved over hers, growing gradually stronger, parting her lips, lingering finally at the corner, and at last pulling away. Standing close, he pressed his lips to her forehead, then said softly, “Think about what I said, about your pictures.” She nodded, a little too breathless to speak. “OK then.” She felt the resonance of his voice deep in her chest. “I’d better go.” But he bent his head instead, kissing her again, and she felt her knees go weak. “Right?” He pulled back just a little to speak, and she ran her hands over the heavy muscles across his shoulders, pressing hard. He dropped the jacket, and both hands went to her waist, pulling her closer. “You sure I should go?”

  She sighed, putting her hand against his chest, tempted, but unsure. “I’m going to need a little time.”

  He sighed, took a step back, and picked up the jacket. His dimples played along the corners of his mouth. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in taking a trip up to Lindsborg sometime? I’d like to show you the operation.”

  “I’d like to see it.”

  “Then we’ll work something out. Well …” He would have reached out for her again, but her smile deepened, and she gave him a little push back toward the door.

  “Good night, Jack,” she laughed softly as he rolled his eyes, and then he was gone, jogging toward his Jeep. She heard the roar of the engine as he blasted down her block, still smiling as she locked the door.

  Tess enjoyed being wooed. With funny, quick emails, goofy texts, or a bunch of spring violets sent to her office, she heard from him nearly every day. A couple times he turned up at the Record’s front desk, waiting patiently, working on his laptop until she finished for the day to take her out to a movie or to grab a bite to eat. It was a long drive for such a simple evening, that always ended with necking in his Jeep, but he didn’t push for anything more.

  Soon, on nights when she didn’t see him, there was a call, made late when he’d finally finished working. They always went on too long and kept her up too late. But he was fun to talk to and she learned more about him than she would have face to face, when her attraction to him distracted her from what he said. She heard more about his business, his farmland and his family in small mentions and quick funny stories.

  He asked all kinds of questions too, the leading kind at which reporters are so good. He’d get her talking about the places she’d go and the pictures she’d make if she had more free time. The fact that he hardly slept amazed her. The fact that he spent a lot of time thinking about her was balm to her spirit.

  Late one afternoon she came dragging home from a shoot down on the Raccoon River, muddy and not very happy with the results, to find him in her front yard, trimming the hedge. “How long have you been here?” she asked as he came over and took her camera bag as she got out of the car.

  “Not long.” He held up the clippers. “I thought I might as well make myself useful. Your garage was unlocked. Maybe you ought to watch that.” She opened her front door. “I was in Ames, talking with an ag professor for a story, and I remembered that there’s a great little dive just a few blocks from here called Marino’s.” He put her bag down in a corner. “I figured why not take a shot. You hungry?”

  She nodded, glad to see him, yet a little provoked. “Just out of curiosity, what would you have done if I’d have pulled in with a date in my car?”

  He brushed the hair back from his forehead and shrugged with a hangdog expression. “I suppose I’d have pretended I was your gardener.” She had to laugh.

  When he brought her home, the sun had just gone down. She fiddled with her keys, looking up at him as he leaned one heavy shoulder against the door frame, the spring breeze ruffling his hair. Pleasantly warmed by the wine and desire in his deep brown eyes, she asked, “Want to come in? It’s pretty early, especially for you.”

  He stayed silent for a long moment, just staring down at her, and then he shook his head. “I caught you by surprise tonight.” He looked into her fatigue-ringed eyes. “You’re tired. And if I come in, I’ll forget my manners.” His hand ran down her arm as he pulled away, and she almost called him back. But she knew he was right. She was exhausted, grubby and travel-worn. And the simple courtesy of his courtship felt awfully good.

  The following week she pulled a shoot in Sioux City. Normally photographing a cattle auction would have her grousing, but it occurred to her it wasn’t that far from Lindsborg. When his midnight call came in that night, she floated the idea. “I was wondering if I should swing by on my way back to Des Moines. I couldn’t stay long, but we could have dinner together or something.”

  “Great! That’d be great.” There was no mistaking he was pleased. “I’ll be here at the Journal. Just come in on the main street and take a right on Maple …”

  “It’s a small town, Jack. I’ll find it.” She hung up and snuggled down into the pillows with a little smile, thinking the time had come to find out if Jack Westphal was as good as he looked.

  Chapter 10

  The visit to Lindsborg was a disaster.

  Maybe it would have gone better if the last day of April hadn't pushed the season by hitting 90 degrees, or if air conditioner hadn’t quit in the company car she was driving. Maybe it was because all hell broke loose right after she arrived. Or ma
ybe it was just the brass-haired bitch behind the counter.

  Tess was hot and sticky, and her head ached when she came in the front door of the Journal. For a moment she stood taking in the beautiful old building, with its long windows and high ceilings, and she smiled at the musky scent of ink and the soft rumble that shook the floor from the press running in back. At both the Tribune and the Record, the presses were miles from the downtown newsrooms.

  “Yes?” A woman with badly colored hair, swept up in a slightly askew French roll came from the side office to the long counter, just as Tess took a few steps toward the bay where a huge roll-top desk filled the space.

  “Jack Westphal? I’m supposed to meet him here.”

  The woman gave her a long, speculative look and then said, “He’s tied up. Maybe you should come back later.”

  Tess shook her head. “I can wait.”

  “Well he’s in a conference, no telling for how long. Mayor Sanderson can be real windy.” It sounded more like a threat than simple information.

  “OK. Mind if I have a seat?” Tess plunked down in an empty chair near the counter. It was then that she noticed the glassed-in conference room, just to the left of the doorway to the back and, presumably, the pressroom. She could see Jack through the window sitting with one hip on the table, in deep conversation with a much smaller, older, balding man.

  “He’s pretty busy,” the brassy woman sniffed and walked back into her messy office, leaving the door open so she could keep an eye on the new visitor.

  For a few minutes Tess slumped in the chair, eyes closed. Jack said he'd updated the building, and he must have put in a whopper of a central air conditioning unit, because it was mercifully cool. When she opened her eyes again, she could see that the discussion in the conference room was turning heated. Jack’s mouth was pulled down in a thin line, and his arms were crossed over his chest as he shook his head.