The Lavender Field

by Jeanette Baker

“Would it be enough for Gabriel for the rest of his life?”

  Whitney nodded. “More than that. He would have the capital to start another business and live comfortably, if that’s what he wants.”

  “I would like my son to accept your offer.”

  “Shouldn’t you be telling him that?”

  “If only it was that easy.”

  Whitney leaned forward. “How can I help?”

  “Stay a while with us. Convince him to see things your way.”

  “You would have more influence than I. You’re family.”

  Mercedes’s black eyes danced. “It’s no wonder you aren’t married, Whitney Benedict. You know nothing at all about men.”

  Gabriel appeared in the doorway carrying a tray with three cups of coffee and a pitcher of cream.

  “Come in, mijito said his mother. “We were just talking about you.”

  He took one look at Whitney’s face and decided against asking the obvious. He offered her a cup. “This is Mexican coffee. It’s flavored with chocolate, cinnamon and sugar.”

  “Thank you,” she said, avoiding his eyes.

  “Whitney is considering staying with us for a while,” his mother announced. “She needs a vacation and she’s fallen in love with California.”

  Gabe sipped his coffee. Over the rim of the cup, his eyes met his mother’s. “Is that so?”

  Whitney choked and set her cup down on the table. “I haven’t decided yet,” she said quickly. “Any word from your sisters?”

  “They’ll be here at eight-thirty. Does that work? I know it’s early.”

  “I was born on a horse farm. Eight-thirty is midmorning for me.”

  Mercedes was a believer in fate. She looked first at her son and then at the young woman who’d come into their lives at exactly the right time. Smiling, she leaned back in her chair, content to watch and wait.

  Six

  Whitney surfaced into consciousness the following morning. Keeping her eyes closed, she sniffed appreciatively. The smells of rich coffee, frying bacon and something laced with a healthy portion of vanilla wafted up the stairs, seeping into the space between the floor and the bottom of her door. This was a house where breakfast was given its due, where children were sent off to school and people needed fuel for hard physical labor.

  Back home, Whitney considered herself fortunate if she remembered to stock her refrigerator with sugarless bran muffins and juice from the convenience store around the corner. Coffee purchased from the local Starbucks rounded out her meal that wasn’t really a meal and bore no relation at all to the breakfasts of her childhood, or to the wonderful repast no doubt awaiting her downstairs in Mercedes’s kitchen.

  Lazily, she stretched her right arm over her head, pulling the muscles taut, holding the position for exactly fifteen seconds before repeating the movement on her left side. Then she opened her eyes, looked around the room and smiled. The architecture and decor were splendid, like nothing she would ever find outside of the Southwest. Colorful prints of California missions and terra-cotta courtyards awash in brilliant flowers covered the stark white walls. The heavy, dark wood of the headboard, bookshelves, the dresser and desk was a sharp contrast to the red-and-white quilt, the woven rug, the table runners, the lush flowers on the dressing table and the glorious autumn sunlight spilling through the U-shaped window. On one side of the room, French doors opened to a small patio with a lounge chair, a table, climbing plants and a western view of the swaying blooms of purple lavender. On the other side, a door led to a fully appointed bathroom decorated with hand- painted Mexican tile, more dark wood, thick red-and- white towels and a shower with a freestanding door.

  It occurred to Whitney that Gabriel might need something more than money to be tempted by the offer she’d been instructed to make. She picked up her cell phone to check the time. The three-hour difference had confused her inner clock. It wasn’t even seven yet and her meeting with Gabriel was scheduled for eight-thirty, plenty of time to drink some of Mercedes’s delicious Mexican coffee and have a look around.

  Less than fifteen minutes later, dressed in slim-fitting black jeans, boots and a crisp white shirt, she was seated at the island in the kitchen making her way through a healthy portion of mixed fruit and machaca—scrambled eggs, chilies, ground beef, cheese and spices.

  Mercedes, busy chopping tomatoes and cilantro, smiled approvingly. “You have a wonderful appetite. Did you sleep well?”

  “Very well,” Whitney replied between bites. “The room is perfect.”

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  Whitney dabbed at her mouth and leaned back in her chair. “I can’t remember when I’ve eaten this much food in the morning. I didn’t even realize I was hungry.”

  Mercedes nodded, looked up from her chopping and tilted her head. “A woman who enjoys her food enjoys life. I have no patience with people who constantly watch their calories. It isn’t natural to be so disciplined.”

  “I don’t know about that,” said Whitney, “but you certainly are a wonderful cook. Your family is incredibly lucky. I wonder if they appreciate you.”

  Mercedes laughed. “They should be down any minute. You can ask them yourself.”

  Just then Emma, dressed in skintight jeans and a peasant top, sauntered into the kitchen, followed by Claire, who stopped suddenly when she saw Whitney.

  “Good morning, my darlings,” Mercedes said. “Would you like eggs or cereal for breakfast?”

  “Nothing for me,” said Emma. “I’m on a diet.”

  Mercedes sighed. “You’re always on a diet. It isn’t good for one so young to worry about food.”

  Emma rolled her eyes. “It isn’t good to be overweight, either.” She glanced at Whitney. “Is it?”

  Whitney sipped her coffee, enjoying the bite of cinnamon and something else on the tip of her tongue. Could she really be tasting lavender in her coffee? She kept her eyes on Claire. The child’s thick, curly hair stood out around her head like a nimbus. She looked to be on the verge of flight. “I’ve heard,” she said noncommittally, “that people who eat grains for breakfast, even white bread or pastry, are better at keeping weight off than those who eat nothing at all.”

  Emma eyed her suspiciously. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Prevention Magazine.”

  Emma slid into the chair beside Whitney. Her jeans, cut just high enough in front to cover her pubic bone, slid down in the back, revealing the cleft in her bottom, her cheeks divided by a bright red thong. “I’ll have cereal and no eggs,” she said to her grandmother.

  “What about you, Claire?” Whitney asked gently. “Would you like cereal, too?”

  The child didn’t answer. Whitney noticed that neither Mercedes nor Emma appeared to regard her behavior as unusual. Maybe her frightened-deer look would go away if everyone ignored her.

  Whitney turned back to the older girl. “What grade are you in, Emma?”

  “Eighth.”

  “In Kentucky, eighth grade is the last year before high school.”

  “It’s the same here.”

  Mercedes poured two bowls of cereal and added milk. “It’s cold this morning, Emma. You know I never interfere, but don’t you think you should cover up your behind?”

  “I’m not cold.”

  Mercedes shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She patted the empty chair. “Sit down, Claire. If you hurry you’ll have time to visit the horses with Whitney before your teacher comes. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  Whitney held her breath. She hadn’t intended to walk out to the dressage center, but she wasn’t about to disappoint this fragile child.

  Slowly, like the unfolding of a flower, the little girl moved toward the food. It wasn’t until she’d picked up her spoon that Whitney felt she could safely draw breath.

  “You know, Emma,” continued Mercedes casually, “Saint Isadora’s requires uniforms.”

  “So?”

  “I thought you might want to remember that.”

/>   The girl raised her eyebrows. “Why should I?”

  “No reason.”

  The teenager frowned. “There better not be. I won’t go to a Catholic high school. Dad wouldn’t do that to me.”

  Mercedes lifted her eyebrows. “You know him better than I do?”

  “Has he said I’m going to Saint Isadora’s?” she demanded.

  “Not in so many words.”

  “What, then? Why are you bringing it up?”

  Mercedes poured juice into two small glasses. Then she cut up a banana and scraped half into each of the girls’ cereal bowls. “Two teenagers came to the house yesterday selling candy for a fund-raiser. They were dressed in school uniforms. Gabriel mentioned how nice they looked.”

  Emma snorted. “They probably look like nerds.”

  “He told me he thought you would look very nice dressed the same way. Of course I said you wouldn’t be caught dead in plaid pleats.” Mercedes wrinkled her brow as if deep in thought. “I can’t be sure what came next, but it sounded something like, ‘Maybe she won’t have a choice.’ ”

  Whitney stifled a smile. Rarely had she seen the act of manipulation played out so masterfully outside the courtroom.

  “Maybe I’ll go live with Grandma Chamberlain.”

  “That won’t solve anything. She wasn’t happy about the way you looked the other night at dinner, especially your hair.”

  “I like my hair,” the girl said indignantly. “It isn’t any of her business what color my hair is.”

  Mercedes’s eyes twinkled. “Be sure to tell her that when you move in.”

  Emma pushed her cereal away. “I have to go or I’ll be late for school.”

  Claire, who appeared oblivious to the entire conversation, looked up. “Can I go with you, Emma?”

  Emma opened her mouth to issue a stinging retort, caught her grandmother’s eye and closed it again. “Not today, Claire,” she mumbled before stalking across the kitchen and out the door.

  Whitney stared at the space Emma had just vacated. She’d witnessed something here, an interchange, both painful and intimate, and so subtle she’d nearly missed it. She wanted to reach out, stop the clock and reflect long enough to understand what had just happened.

  Mercedes broke the spell. She sighed and sat down in Emma’s chair. “You do go to school, Claire. Mrs. Cook comes every day to teach you.”

  “Mrs. Cook comes here. I want to go to school.”

  “I know, mijita.” The woman took the child’s hand in her own. “Maybe, someday soon.”

  Once again, in the space of a minute, Whitney was touched by the personal tableau. The child’s problem couldn’t be solved by preparation, logic or an articulate closing argument. This was something poignant and hopeless, a victim with no perpetrator, unless one counted a few twisted brain synapses.

  Suddenly, Whitney had to do something. “What time does Mrs. Cook come?” she asked.

  “Nine o’clock,” Mercedes replied.

  “That gives us about an hour, plenty of time to walk to the dressage center, have a look and come back. I’d love to have you show me around, Claire. Will you do that?”

  The little girl’s face was completely still, but behind the blue eyes Whitney saw a flicker. Her mind was moving, processing the information. Finally, slowly, as if something in her head connected, she nodded.

  Whitney swayed slightly, gripping the edge of the counter. Waves of relief passed through her. “I’ll drink the last of my coffee while you finish your cereal.”

  The dressage center on a working morning bore no resemblance to the quiet, almost dreamlike place Whitney had visited the evening before. A lemony spring sun hovered over the Ronald Reagan Library to the east, illuminated the silver rooftops of the stalls and colored the hills and grassland a lush, crayola-box green. To the west, fog swallowed the dark trails, strangling the peaks of low hills, settling over the canopy of trees that bordered the highway, turning the lavender field into a blanket of smoke. The white-fenced rings were once again turned over and beautifully raked.

  In all three performance areas, horses trotted and cantered in breathtaking precision, their riders in boots, breeches and helmets. Trainers, walkie-talkies in hand, issued commands from John Deere golf carts. Men in red shirts tossed bails of hay from a flatbed to a massive storage barn. Two mares with glistening coats chased each other around the turnout and another two were being lunged in the outside ring. The office door was open and a rich coffee smell emanated from the room.

  Claire pointed to the open door. “Daddy’s probably in there.”

  Whitney nodded and rubbed her arms. No one had told her California mornings were cold. “We can stop in and say hello, if you like. But I’d really like to watch the riding.”

  “Me, too.” Claire ran ahead. “Look! Mary’s riding Zinfandel. She’s a good one to watch.”

  Whitney followed, catching up with the little girl at the fence. Less than ten feet away, a woman with a sun- lined face and dry, streaked hair sat in a golf cart, wrapped in a black shawl, issuing commands. She smiled and waved at Claire without missing a beat. Whitney strained to hear her.

  “Less half halt and give, pick up the rein, pick it up! Good, now half pass, tighter—tighter! Damn it, Mary, I said tighter! You can do better than that. What’s the matter with you? Straighten up! You look like a sack of potatoes tied in the middle! There. That’s it. Good impulsion. Now, move forward and don’t forget to salute.”

  Whitney ached for the rider. The gelding was beautiful, a lovely silver-gray Andalusian. An animal like that was worth a fortune and so, obviously, was the woman who could afford him. Typically, trainers with little formal education felt justified in verbally abusing educated professionals who swallowed their pride in order to ride. It was the same in Kentucky as in California, and probably everywhere else in the civilized world, where people had an urge to manipulate the natural instincts of a two-thousand-pound animal.

  Beside her, Claire sighed. “She’s so pretty.”

  Whitney looked down at her, recognizing the worshipful look on the little girl’s face. She was no expert, but Claire didn’t behave like a child with autism. She was far too responsive. “Do you ride?”

  Claire nodded. “I had my own horse. Her name was Seville’s Rose. But she was old and she died.”

  “That’s too bad. When did it happen?”

  “A while ago.”

  “Will you get another one?”

  Again Claire nodded. “My dad said I could ride Lorelei to see if she’s good for me.” She looked at Whitney. “She’s one of ours.”

  Whitney didn’t answer. Unless she was mistaken about Claire’s expression, Lorelei was a pure Lipizzaner, one of the horses the Austrian government wanted returned to them. She stared out over the hills, coming alive with color from the morning sun. Why couldn’t anything ever be simple?

  “Good morning, ladies,” a voice said from behind them.

  Claire turned. “Hi, Daddy.”

  Whitney swung around to face Gabe. He wore jeans, a dark plaid jacket with a fur collar, boots and no hat. He removed his sunglasses. His eyes were remarkable. Flecks of green shot through the blue turned his irises a brilliant turquoise. She swallowed. “Good morning.”

  “I thought we had a meeting at eight-thirty.” “

  Mercedes thought it would be a good idea for Claire to start her morning this way, instead of watching the others go off to school.” She hoped the message in her answer was clear. Apparently it was.

  He relaxed and nodded at the rider in the ring. “You’re watching Mary Worth on Zinfandel. What do you think?”

  “I wouldn’t presume to comment on the riding,” she said diplomatically. “I’ve been away from it too long. The horse is outstanding, though. I remember enough to know that.” She rested her hand on Claire’s head. “I understand this one rides as well.”

  Gabe smiled. “She’s a natural. Sometimes I forget she’s only eight and overestimate her strength. I had th
e perfect mare for her, but she died recently. I’m thinking she’ll be able to handle Lorelei.”

  “I hope it works out.”

  He checked his watch. “I’ll give you a tour later on if you want, but I think Mrs. Cook is due to arrive soon and she runs a tight ship.”

  Whitney looked at Claire to see the child’s expression, but her face was impassive.

  “It’s time to go, sweetheart,” her father said gently.

  Claire sighed. “I know.”

  He tugged her hair. “I’ll meet you back at the house, unless you want to ride with me.”

  The little girl tilted her head, apparently considering her choices. Whitney was reminded of a small, vivid bird.

  “I’ll go with Whitney,” she decided.

  For an instant, something flickered in Gabe’s eyes, and then it was gone. “All right, then. See you there.”

  Whitney delivered Claire at the same time Gabe pulled into the lot. A young woman with an armload of books was standing beside one of four parked cars.

  Gabe introduced them. “Whitney Benedict, this is Sheila Cook, Claire’s teacher.”

  Whitney liked the young woman instantly. She was casually dressed in a slim denim skirt and a colorful, patchwork vest. Her thick, dark braid hung down her back, and when she smiled her gum line showed.

  She hugged Claire. “Good morning. How are you?”

  “Fine.”

  “Good.” She smiled brightly. “I’m sorry I’m late. There was an accident on the freeway.”

  Whitney shuddered. It didn’t surprise her. She wasn’t looking forward to the drive back to the airport. “Do you live far from here?” she asked.

  “About twenty miles,” Sheila Cook answered. “But twenty miles can take fifteen minutes or an hour, depending on the condition of the roads. Usually, I’m lucky.” She looked curiously at Whitney. “Do I detect a southern accent?”

  “I’m from Kentucky.”

  “Ah, more horse country.” Her hand grazed Claire’s head. “This one is horse crazy. It’s all she talks about.” She smiled and spoke directly to Claire. “So, how about it? Are you ready for school to start?”

  The little girl nodded.