The Lavender Field

by Jeanette Baker

  “I love this weather,” said Pryor, her head lolling against the high-backed lounge chair. “Late spring and fall are the only decent seasons we have.”

  Lila Rae nodded. “Speaking of fall, I’m thinking of going away for Thanksgiving.”

  Pryor sat up. “You’re joking.”

  “No, I’m not. I looked through those cruise brochures you showed me. I’m not getting any younger, Pryor. I’d like to see the Greek islands before I die.”

  “But it’s a family holiday,” Pryor wailed. “We hardly have any family as it is.”

  “Whose fault is that? You should have had more children.”

  “That isn’t fair.” Pryor’s hands trembled. She set down her lemonade glass on the side table.

  Lila Rae frowned. “I didn’t mean to upset you, sugar. Obviously, I hit a nerve. We’ve been down this road before. Don’t you think it’s time to talk about it? I can bring out the sherry.”

  “I don’t need alcohol.”

  Lila Rae wisely remained silent.

  “Oh, all right.” Pryor tilted her glass to get the last delicious drop of sugary liquid. Her head was feeling strange. She stared defiantly at her aunt. “Boone wasn’t up to it.” She started to laugh and then stopped immediately. “No pun intended.” She lifted her hand to her forehead. “Did I really say that?”

  “Whatever you say is safe with me,” Lila Rae assured her. “You know nothing goes beyond this porch. It’s vulgar to gossip about family.”

  “The thing is,” Pryor continued, “Boone has this problem.” She stared into her glass. “At first, I thought it was me. I felt inadequate, undesirable. My friends were complaining because their husbands wouldn’t leave them alone, and here I was, hardly getting lucky at all. After a year or so it wasn’t unusual for two or three weeks to go by with nothing.” She looked at the older woman. “You do know what I’m talking about?”

  “It happens to all of us, eventually.”

  Pryor refilled her glass. “But not for a long, long time. Not until middle age when you’re used to each other and it doesn’t matter as much.”

  “It always matters.”

  “Not like it does when you’re twenty-five. I was too hurt and insecure to wonder if the problem was his. For years we went on that way, stepping around each other, never really addressing the problem.” She shrugged. “Now we’ve leveled out. At some point I woke up and realized sexual frequency had nothing to do with love. I learned to appreciate my husband.” The corners of her mouth tilted up. “Better late than never. Menopause helped and so did all those Viagra ads. I mean, if Bob Dole could appear on national television and talk about erectile dysfunction, then I definitely wasn’t alone. If Elizabeth can tolerate having the world know her husband couldn’t get it up, then I suppose it’s something lots of women go through.” Pryor looked up, embarrassed by her honesty. “Everything’s fine now, except that we have only Whitney. Not that Whitney isn’t a wonderful, wonderful daughter. I wouldn’t give her up for the world. I don’t want you to think I’m not happy with my daughter. It’s just that I wish there were a few more of her.”

  Lila Rae stared off into the distance as if deep in thought. “Maybe I’ll take the cruise in September instead of Thanksgiving.” She smiled at her niece. “I wouldn’t worry about Whitney if I were you. She’s a smart girl.”

  “She’s invited Gabriel Mendoza and his children for Derby weekend.”

  “My goodness.” Lila Rae’s gray eyes widened. “She sounds serious.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “Pryor, honey, make up your mind. I thought you wanted a family. Seems to me if Whitney marries this Mendoza fellow, you’ll have a ready-made one.”

  “California is a long way from here, Lila Rae.”

  “It’ll give you an excuse to travel.”

  “Boone doesn’t like to travel.”

  Lila Rae sighed. “He’ll learn to like it. People make do, Pryor. You can’t have everything the way you want it.”

  “Promise me you’ll be here for Thanksgiving.”

  “I promise.”

  Twenty-Five

  Fayette County, Kentucky, the heart of bluegrass country, was about as different from Southern California as Gabe’s solid warmbloods were from the long-legged, high-strung Thoroughbreds he saw munching on grass and chasing one another in the pastures and paddocks all around him. This was horse country at its best, and the gleaming coats, muscled flanks and flaring nostrils of the well-cared-for animals proclaimed it more than anything else he’d seen. He’d read about the stillbirths and aborted fetuses in central Kentucky, but there was no evidence of it here. These were the princes of the equine world, household names worth millions, whose owners spent even more millions in stud fees, training, entry charges and maintenance for that one-in-a-million chance of beating the odds in three races, the Derby, the Belmont and the Preakness, the famous Triple Crown. Even Gabriel, whose preferences lay in showing instead of racing, felt his chest tighten at the thought of bringing home such a prize.

  He drove easily, a map open beside him on the passenger seat, his eyes on the road, his peripheral vision filled with rolling green hills, white split-rail fences, large wood-and-brick homes, and more spindle-legged Thoroughbreds than he’d ever seen in one place in his life. Claire in the back seat and Emma, beside him in the front, had their noses glued to the windows. Eric had elected to stay home with Mercedes. His junior prom was this weekend. Gabe would figure out some way to make it up to him.

  It was too early to call Whitney away from her job, but not too early to stop in at her family home. He had to admit he was more than a little curious to see where she had acquired her horse sense, as well as her antipathy for the industry.

  According to the map, he should be approaching Madison, the town closest to Whitney Downs. Sure enough, an elegantly engraved sign in gothic script swung gently from two posts, indicating the turn. The road leading to the house was dirt-packed, winding and lined with enormous oaks.

  “Wow!” Emma said reverently. “This is some place.”

  Gabe pulled his rented Taurus close to the house, climbed out and stretched his legs. The house, seasoned by time, was colonial in style, with a huge wraparound porch. The girls clamored out after him. Together they approached the entrance.

  An older version of Whitney opened the door. She held out her hand and smiled warmly. “Welcome, welcome, Gabriel. I’m so pleased to meet you.”

  Gabe shook it. “You must be Whitney’s mother. Thank you for the invitation. I’m grateful that you’re having us on such short notice.”

  “It’s no trouble at all. I love company.”

  Gabe believed her. He hadn’t expected such blatant enthusiasm. Her accent was lovely, more pronounced than Whitney’s. He rested his hands on the girls’ shoulders. “These are my daughters, Emma and Claire.”

  Pryor reached out her hands to the girls and led them inside. “We’ll go upstairs right away and I’ll show you around. Then I’ll fix y’all something to eat.” She looked over her shoulder at Gabe. “Why don’t you go over to the barns and find Boone. He’s anxious to meet you.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Gabe crossed the rich green grass to the working heart of the stud farm. The barns were immaculate, as if from a National Velvet picture book.

  “Damn it, Reese,” he heard someone yell from inside, “we’re gonna lose this one, too. Where in the hell is that vet?”

  “Easy does it, Boone. She’s not finished yet,” another voice said.

  “I need another pair of hands, and quick. She’s going crazy on me.”

  Gabe swung into action and ran toward the sound. Inside the foaling barn, two men grappled with a mare in the last frenzied stages of giving birth. She was on her side. Her eyes were wild and flecks of foam escaped from her mouth. Underneath her belly one tiny leg and hoof had punctured the amniotic sac and hung free, a breeder’s nightmare. “What can I do?” he asked calmly.


  The smaller man looked up. “Who are you?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” the other man, who was obviously Boone Benedict said. “Come here, son. Take my place and try to keep her still until I get the hypodermic.”

  Gabe stepped through the flailing legs and squatted down. “You’ll lose the foal if you shoot her now.”

  “I’ll lose her if I don’t,” Boone replied tersely. “If we can quiet the mare down long enough so she doesn’t roll over, we might save both of them.”

  Gabe ran his hands expertly down the mare’s belly. He knew the foal was in the right position. Otherwise, the head would be exposed. “Who’s worth more?” he asked.

  “It’s a toss-up. I’m gonna go get the needle. Whatever you do, keep the foal’s leg free. We’re not the goddamn Irish National Stud. We can’t afford a crippled colt.”

  Gabriel nodded. “I’ve got her.” Speaking soothingly to the frightened animal, he eased his hand inside the mare’s vagina and searched for the other leg. It was twisted. “I think I know what the problem is,” he said to the man who remained behind. “If we can get the mare to stand, I can fix it.”

  “I don’t know.” Reese wasn’t convinced. “If something goes wrong, we’ll be in a hell of a fix with Boone.”

  Ignoring him, Gabe worked on the mare, urging her up on her feet when he knew all her instincts told her to lie down, to succumb to the numbing pain and incredible pressure pulsing through her body. Finally, he succeeded. The mare stumbled to her feet in the throes of another powerful contraction. Gabe waited it out, keeping his grip on the twisted leg. His brow was wet with sweat. Gradually, the pressure retracted and the mare settled down just as Boone returned with the hypodermic and a towel.

  “How’s she doing?” he asked.

  Gabe nodded at the needle. “She won’t need that. The foal’s leg is twisted and his rib cage is large, but if you give me a few minutes, I can pull it free.”

  Boone hesitated, afraid to hope, watching the young man relax the mare with his voice and, with his hands, ease the foal through the birth canal, pulling free the other leg, then the chest and the head. Finally the rest of the body fell into his arms.

  Tearing the remains of the amniotic sac away from the small wet newborn, Gabe sat back on his heels and grinned. “A happy ending after all. It’s a girl.”

  Boone slapped him on the back and tossed him the towel. “Well, I’ll be damned. Who are you, son? If you need a job, you’ve got one.”

  Gabe chuckled and wiped his hands on the towel. “I’m Gabriel Mendoza. Pryor sent me. I’m here to see Whitney.”

  “I guess you don’t need a job, but how about a drink and a clean shirt?” Boone looked at Reese. “What about you, ol’ buddy? Are you up for a tall one?”

  Reese shook his head. “I’m bushed. You go on without me. I’ll finish here, clean up these two, give ’em their antibiotics and then take off.”

  “If you’re sure, I’ll play host to our guest and come back later to check on our new arrival. You can tell our vet he’s fired.”

  “She’s a good-looking filly,” Gabriel said on their walk back to the house.

  “She ought to be. That was Dante’s Lady you had your hands buried up to the elbows in. She was bred to Narragansett. The filly’s got the best bloodlines in the state of Kentucky.” He looked speculatively at Gabe. “But you know something about bloodlines, don’t you, son?”

  “I guess Whitney told you.”

  “Hell, Whitney didn’t have to say anything. I’m in the business. Anybody who knows horses knows the Franz Kohnle story.”

  “Most people don’t put two and two together. After all, my name isn’t Kohnle.”

  “Why is that?”

  Gabe shrugged. “My father’s memories of Europe weren’t good ones. He wanted his children to start over with no links to his past, so we took our mother’s name, in the Spanish tradition.”

  Boone nodded. “Nothing wrong with that, nothing at all. Whitney carries her mother’s family name. It’s a southern tradition. I’m the same way. Boone is a family name, too.” He opened the door and stepped back to allow Gabe to precede him. “I’ll show you to a bathroom where you can wash up. There’s antibacterial soap in the medicine cabinet, and I’ll see if I can find you a shirt. When you’re finished, I’ll meet you in the living room, first door on your right.”

  Gabe took off his blood-stained shirt, then scrubbed his hands and dried them thoroughly. Carrying the shirt, he went in search of Boone. Framed photos in the hallway stopped him. The Benedict family gallery depicted Whitney at various stages of her life: baby Whitney, bald as a chicken egg, held proudly in a young Pryor’s arms; infant Whitney’s first Christmas; toddler Whitney with a head of sunny curls, her hands in a birthday cake; Whitney and her first pony; Whitney’s first day of school; Whitney and her father standing beside a long- legged, chestnut Thoroughbred; Whitney showing the first signs of puberty, dressed in breeches, jacket and boots, exhibition clothes; Whitney holding a first-prize blue ribbon; a grown-up Whitney, slim and straight in a formal gown, her shoulders sculpted and brown; and the most recent, the woman he knew, a smiling Whitney in a cap and gown holding a diploma. A wall of pictures, testimony to a young, successful woman’s life, evidence of her parents’ pride.

  Boone came up behind him, carrying a clean shirt. “She’s something, isn’t she?”

  Gabe pulled it over his head. “Yes, she is.”

  “I suppose everyone feels that way about their children,” Boone acknowledged.

  “Probably, but in your case it’s well deserved.”

  “Pryor thinks you two are an item.”

  “Not yet,” Gabe said honestly.

  Boone laughed. “That’s an optimistic answer.”

  “It doesn’t hurt to hope.”

  “No, son, it doesn’t. It was that way for me, too.”

  “Really?”

  “Leave your shirt in the bathroom and come with me. I don’t know where my wife has gone with your kids, but I’ll pour you a drink and tell you about it. Is bourbon and branch okay with you, or would you prefer whiskey?”

  “Don’t waste either on me. I’ll have a beer.”

  The house was decorated much more formally than the hacienda, yet it wasn’t at all sterile. An aging, obviously expensive, Persian carpet covered warm oak floors. Long windows looked out on a deep lawn shaded by giant, green-leafed maples. On opposite sides of the fireplace, cream-colored couches flanked a wide, low table. The walls were the same color as the couches, but every available surface was covered with original oils, their subjects a mix of horse races, pastoral Kentucky and covered bridges. Above the fireplace was a life- size portrait of a spectacularly muscled Thoroughbred painted in a style that Gabriel recalled was popular a hundred years ago. On the opposite wall were ceiling-to-floor shelves entirely filled with books. Gabriel had never seen so many books in his life. His estimation of the Benedicts, already high, rose. “You have quite a library,” he said.

  Boone handed him his drink. “Impressive, isn’t it? It’s all Pryor. She’s the reader in the family—along with Whitney, of course, but Whitney took her books with her. I’m a periodical man myself. Nothing longer than the daily newspaper or an occasional magazine article for me. I’m not apologizing for it, mind you, but I can’t take credit for the books. Pryor never finished college, mostly because she married me. Women didn’t do that in those days, go to school after they got married. Still, she managed to squeeze in quite an education on her own.”

  Noting works by German philosophers, Russian playwrights, Irish poets, contemporary biographies and classic American novelists, Gabe agreed with him. If Pryor Benedict had read these books, she had a liberal arts education equal to anyone. He sat down on the couch across from Boone. “You were going to tell me something.”

  Boone’s face softened. “Am I right in assuming you’re taken with my daughter?”

  “Are you surprised?”

  “Not at all. Whitney has
been collecting men all her life.”

  “I believe you, especially now that I’ve seen her pictures. Is that what you were going to tell me?”

  “No. That goes without saying. What I wanted to tell you is that I felt the same way about her mother. Forty years ago, I didn’t think I had a chance in a million with Pryor Whitney.” He lifted his glass of bourbon. “Just goes to show you, anything can happen. ’Course it isn’t the same, Pryor and me, you and Whitney. I didn’t have two nickels to rub together. Whitney has a high-paying profession and you have a business that could make you a multimillionaire.”

  “So do you.”

  Boone shook his head. “Only if I get lucky. So far, that hasn’t happened. We make a decent living, Pryor and me, don’t get me wrong. But we’re not millionaires by a long shot. Breeding racehorses is never a sure thing. Every year is a new challenge.”

  Gabe had the fleeting thought that he’d been invited into the living room of a female version of Mercedes Mendoza. Apparently no topic was off limits for Boone. No wonder Whitney was so comfortable at the hacienda. “Anything involving the performance of animals is a challenge and a long shot.”

  “Are you here to sell?”

  “Yes.”

  Boone leaned forward. “That’s a big step, son. Will you go out of the business entirely?”

  “No, sir. It’s all I know. I’m thinking of starting over with different stock.”

  “I see. Well, you’re here on a good weekend. The Derby is something to see.”

  “Actually, I flew out here to see your daughter.”

  Boone leaned back again. “Listen, Gabe. You seem like a real nice guy. Just remember, Whitney’s been on her own for a long time. It might be hard for her to change her ways.” He scratched his head. “For some reason, she’s not the domestic type.”

  Gabe grinned. “Like you said, anything’s possible.”

  Boone was well into another Whitney story and his third bourbon and branch when the telephone rang. He picked it up. “Hi, honey. Yep, he sure is. We’re having quite a time out here. I think this guy’s a keeper. He delivered a foal for me.” He frowned. “Okay. I’ll fill your mother in. She was hoping you’d all stay here tonight and eat supper. Uh-huh. Don’t worry. I’ll calm her down.”