Informed Risk: A Hero For Sophie Jones

by Robyn Carr

Because she had a terrible feeling that when the numbness passed, the pain of her heart breaking would be impossible to bear.

  Chapter 11

  Her arms full of last night’s sheets, Sophie descended the back stairs. She went straight to the pantry area, which also did duty as a laundry room. She set the sheets on the dryer, put detergent in the washer, and then loaded the sheets in on top. She started the cycle and closed the lid.

  Upstairs, Midge was supposed to be making up the last of the beds. Sophie knew she ought to trudge back up there and make certain that Midge kept on task. So far that morning, the maid had been utterly useless.

  It was a matter of love over duty. Last night, Midge’s boyfriend had finally proposed and Midge had accepted. So today, the maid had her mind on wedding announcements and not on getting the beds made.

  Sophie started for the stairs again, then stopped when she got to the base of them. She looked up the narrow, dim stairwell—and remembered.

  That first night. Sinclair so grim and distracted as she showed him the lower floor. And then, on those very stairs, grabbing for her, burying his face in her hair. And herself, holding on, promising him that it would be all right….

  Sophie closed her eyes in a vain attempt to block out the memory. She turned from the stairwell. Midge was happy. Happiness was rare enough in life. If the beds at the Mountain Star didn’t get made until later than usual today, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.

  Really, Sophie knew she ought to go back over to her office in the spare room of the guest house. She ought to boot up her trusty old Macintosh and balance the accounts.

  She ought to. And she would. In a few minutes.

  She wandered toward the kitchen. Myra was making her famous blackberry jam today. The smell of the cooking berries hung sweet and heavy in the air. Sophie followed that late-summer scent.

  When she reached the doorway, she saw Myra over at the stove, stirring a big, steaming kettle. Caleb stood beside her.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Caleb spoke quietly—a man who didn’t want to be overheard. “She hasn’t been herself for three or four days now.”

  Myra went on stirring. “Since he stopped coming round—have you noticed?”

  “I noticed.” Now Caleb sounded grim. “He’s run out on her, hasn’t he?”

  “She’s not talking.”

  “I’d like to talk to him.”

  Sophie spoke up then, her tone falsely bright. “Please, don’t even think about it.”

  Both of her employees whipped around. “Sophie B.,” they muttered in unison. She would have smiled at their guilty expressions—if she’d been in a smiling mood.

  “We were just…” Myra hesitated, then finished rather lamely, “…worried about you.”

  “Don’t be. I’m fine.”

  Caleb jumped in. “That’s not true. We all know it’s not. You drag around here lookin’ miserable. We just want to help.”

  Sophie waved a hand in front of her face. “There’s nothing you can do. Honestly. I will be fine. In a while.”

  Caleb fisted both big hands. “Just give me that bastard’s phone number. It’s all I want.”

  “Caleb, stop it.”

  “You let me at him.”

  “Caleb. Listen. It’s nothing you can do anything about. Leave it alone.”

  Myra laid her freckled hand on Caleb’s arm. “She’s right. It’s not for you to settle.”

  Caleb muttered something truculent, pulled out from under Myra’s steadying grip and stalked out. Myra turned back to her cooking blackberries. Sophie dared to come forward, into the room.

  “Caleb only wants to make things right,” Myra said carefully.

  “I know. But there really is nothing he can do.”

  “He knows that, too. But he doesn’t like it one bit.” The cook tapped the spoon on the edge of the pot. “And neither do I.”

  “I will be all right.” Sophie uttered the words way too grimly.

  “Sure you will.” Myra shot her a determined smile, then gestured toward the big table in the center of the room. “Now, bring me that tray of sterilized Mason jars.”

  The days passed. Sophie went through all the motions that equaled her life. But the joy, the pleasure, seemed leached from it all. Her world had a dullness to it now. It wasn’t the way she’d expected to feel. She kept waiting for the real pain of loss to begin, for her heart to break—or else to feel better. Neither seemed to happen. One bleak day passed like the one before it.

  Sinclair never tried to contact her. She mailed off the lease payment. And by the time Labor Day had come and gone, she started to believe he must have meant what he said: if she paid her lease on time, she could keep the Mountain Star.

  That realization should have helped, shouldn’t it? But somehow, it didn’t. Except to make her feel angry beneath the dullness.

  As if he had bested her somehow. Outdone her in goodness, when he was the one who was supposed to be bad.

  Sometimes, at night, she would wake from sensual dreams of him. She would look out the window at the star-thick Sierra sky, wishing he was there beside her, to caress and kiss her, to ease the ache of wanting him.

  She almost hated him then, for the way her own body betrayed her. She wanted to forget him, to stop remembering, stop yearning.

  To reclaim her life again, the way it used to be, before she had ever laid eyes on him. To return to the time of her own innocence—yes, that was it. To the time when she trusted without question, when she gave without thought of the price it might cost her somewhere down the line.

  Going through the motions. Yes, that was her life now. She still did the things she believed in: the campground remained open; Myra continued to give away food they probably should have saved for the paying customers. Midge quit and Sophie immediately hired someone even more hopeless, a four-months’ pregnant, unmarried nineteen-year-old named Bethy, whose boyfriend had recently taken off for parts unknown.

  Bethy was plagued by continuing morning sickness, which seemed to strike about an hour into her shift. Then she’d have to sit down and chew soda crackers—or simply head home to the house she shared with an older sister and the sister’s family. That would leave Sophie making beds, washing sheets, sweeping floors—and resenting it mightily.

  Sophie knew that she ought to let Bethy go. And that depressed her further. The girl did need the job. But even Sophie couldn’t justify having someone on her limited payroll who never managed to get any work done.

  Worst of all, to Sophie’s mind, her theater had stopped giving her pleasure. By the weekend after Labor Day, she was showing the fifth installment in her Randi Wilding Retrospective. It was one of Randi’s very best films, Shadowed Heart. The actress played a woman with mental disabilities who managed to show a whole town the real meaning of love and sacrifice. Sophie had been preparing her introduction to that one for a long time. And then, on Wednesday, September third, Randi Wilding died in a plane crash. The news was all over the papers. It was something Sophie would have cried over once: all that talent and beauty, snuffed out forever. Yet when she heard the news, she felt nothing at all.

  She stayed up late into the night, reworking her introductory speech, trying to put into it all the emotions she couldn’t make herself feel.

  When Thursday night came, the theater was packed. Sophie had to use all of her old folding chairs to seat everyone.

  And then, when she got up there in front of them all, her much-rehearsed speech came out sounding utterly flat, totally empty of warmth and compassion. Her audience watched her politely. Some, the ones who visited often, stared with puzzled, slightly worried expressions. In the end, grasping at straws, she threw in a few jokes about the pigeon in the rafters. No one so much as chuckled. She felt only relief when she finally headed for the hayloft to get the darn thing rolling.

  Oggie Jones, whom she hadn’t seen since she and Sin visited North Magdalene together, showed up on Friday night. When she sold him his ticket, he asked he
r how she was doing. She pasted on a smile, and chirped out, “Just fine.”

  He leaned toward her, narrowing his eyes. “You don’t look so fine. How’s that man of yours?”

  A tiny flame of anger licked up inside her. She was getting so tired of having people tell her she didn’t look fine, and she didn’t need old Oggie Jones asking her about Sin. She did not need that at all.

  “I have no man, thank you.” She shoved his change at him. “And, for your information, I meant what I said. I really am fine.”

  “Well, pardon me for givin’ a damn,” the old man growled.

  Tears of confusion and shame stung the back of Sophie’s throat. Oh, what was wrong with her, to speak so sharply to dear Uncle Oggie? She wanted to tell him she was sorry, ask him to please forgive her for behaving so badly. But he was already gone, toddling on that manzanita cane of his toward the open barn doors. She turned a quivery smile on her next customer, promising herself that she would smooth things over after the show.

  But then, all through her lifeless introduction, she kept feeling the watchful weight of that beady dark gaze on her. It was nearly as unsettling—though in a totally different way—as the first night Sin had sat in her audience and listened to her opening speech. She had the very unpleasant feeling that Oggie would not let her simply apologize for her rude behavior and be done with it. He was going to bring up the subject of Sin again, she just knew it. And she didn’t want to deal with that, not tonight. Not at all.

  At intermission, he made things worse. He hobbled up to the concession stand and ordered exactly what Sin had ordered that first night.

  “Gimme a bowl of popcorn—and maybe some bottled spring water. Yeah, that sounds refreshin’, don’t you think, gal?”

  She gaped at him. Oggie never bought anything at intermission but coffee, light and sweet.

  He let out one of those cackling laughs of his. She’d always thought that laugh charming and folksy. Tonight, it just set her nerves jangling like loose pennies in a rolling jar.

  “Come on, popcorn and bottled water. Snap it up, now.”

  She shoveled the popcorn into a bowl and gave him the water. He made a big show of counting out exact change. Then he said, “You know, gal, with this cane and all, I don’t believe I can carry both the bowl and the bottle. I think you’re gonna have to help me back to my seat.”

  There were five other customers waiting behind him. Sophie cast them a rueful glance, half hoping that one of them would either complain—or volunteer to help dear old Uncle Oggie themselves. But this was the Mountain Star, so they all smiled in tolerant understanding.

  One of them spoke up. “You go ahead, Sophie B. We can wait.”

  Oggie chortled away. “Yeah, they can wait.” He flung out a hand, indicating the water and popcorn. “Let’s move.” He turned and started for the open curtains to the main theater, looking way too happy with himself.

  Sophie was forced to pick up his refreshments and follow in his wake.

  At his seat—on the aisle, thank heaven—he had to make a big event out of laying his cane down just so and settling himself in. Then he winked at her. “Hand ’em over, gal.” She passed him the bowl and the bottle of water. “Thank you,” he said, nodding his grizzled head like some backwoods potentate. “I surely do appreciate your kindness to an old man.” His tiny eyes twinkled merrily.

  She gritted her teeth together and kept on smiling, wishing with all her heart by then that she didn’t owe him an apology.

  Shadowed Heart was a real ten-hankie tearfest. By the time the final credits rolled, all the women were sobbing and the men kept surreptitiously swiping at their eyes. Sophie stood by the door as she always did, saying her farewells—farewells that had become a bit perfunctory of late.

  Her guests lined up, still dabbing at stray tears. All except Oggie Jones. He stumped right over to the concession counter, where he made a major production of leaning lazily, looking like a doddery imitation of Sin on that first night.

  Sophie could easily have wrung his wrinkled neck.

  Finally, when everyone else was gone, she turned on him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  He grinned. “Waitin’ for my chance to find out what the hell’s gone wrong with you.”

  She glared at him, longing to confront him with his cruel behavior, especially those petty impersonations of Sin. But if she did that, she’d only be introducing the subject she refused to discuss. Finally she settled for insisting, “There is nothing wrong with me.”

  He snorted. “Liar.”

  She felt as if he’d slapped her. And she longed to slap right back.

  In an effort to get control of herself, she turned and scooped up an armful of empty popcorn bowls. When she faced him again, she managed to mutter tightly, “All right. I want you to know I’m sorry for the way I snapped at you when you bought your ticket.”

  “Eh? Sorry, are you?”

  “Yes. And now I really must ask you to leave. I have work to do.”

  “I’m goin’ nowhere.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said, I’m goin’ nowhere. You and me are gonna have a little talk.”

  “No, we’re not. You’re leaving and I’m going to—”

  “Put those bowls down.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me. Put ’em down.”

  “You have no right to tell me what to do.”

  “Someone’s gotta.” He hit his cane on the floor. Hard. “Put ’em down.”

  They scowled at each other. Sophie wanted to scream. And say terrible things. And throw the damn bowls in his mean, wrinkled face.

  And then, out of nowhere, her eyes filled up. Her throat burned. She realized she was starting to cry.

  Oggie spoke more gently. “That’s right. It’s okay. Set the bowls down now. And you and me will talk this out.”

  The tears were flowing down her cheeks by then. With a ragged sigh, she turned and set the bowls back on the table.

  “Good.” He stumped over to her. “Come on.” His voice was so soothing, so gentle and kind. He put an arm around her. “It’s okay, gal. We’ll go outside. We’ll talk this out.”

  Sophie surrendered, burying her head against his bony shoulder and sobbing out her loss into his frayed white shirt.

  They sat out in the middle of the lawn, in the cool darkness, on the edge of the fountain with the laughing little girl.

  Oggie produced a handkerchief and Sophie blew her nose and blotted the tears. “You tell your Uncle Oggie now, gal. I’ve solved worse problems than you could ever dream of, believe you me.”

  And so, between occasional persistent sobs, blotting her eyes when she had to, Sophie told the old man everything. How she had loved Sinclair and given herself completely to him. And the awful, cruel way that he had betrayed her.

  When she was done, they sat there in the darkness for a moment, Sophie and the kind old man, with the fountain gurgling behind them and the crickets singing in the grass.

  At last, Oggie shook his head. “So then, I guess you don’t really love him after all.”

  Sophie sniffed. Surely she hadn’t heard him correctly. “Wh-what did you say?”

  “I said, I guess you don’t really love him, after all—right?”

  She backed away from him an inch or two and spoke with thoroughly justified indignation. “What are you talking about? Of course I love him.”

  “Then why did you let him go?”

  Sophie gaped. How could he even ask such a thing? “He had a detective follow me. He lied to me. He pretended to be what he wasn’t. He planned to run me out of here if I didn’t sell out to him.”

  Oggie coughed into his hand. “Right. I get it, now. You love him. But you don’t love him enough.”

  Sophie hiccupped a final sob away. She could not believe the gall of this old man. Here she’d poured out her heart to him and he had the nerve to accuse her of not loving enough. “How can you say that?”

  �
��Well, because it’s the plain truth. Because if you loved him enough, you’d be thinking about what he actually did, which was to go away and let you have this place, after all.”

  “But…” She said the one word, and then couldn’t think of what to say next. Pure outrage had rendered her speechless.

  Oggie, however, had plenty to say. “And while we’re on the subject, it’s quite a damn deal you got here, gal, I gotta tell you. You lease a few buildings and five acres pretty damn cheap and you—”

  That got her mouth working. She demanded, “How do you know what I pay for my lease?”

  He waved a hand. “I’m Oggie Jones. I got my sources.”

  “But I…you…”

  “Stop your sputterin’. I’m still talkin’. Where was I? Right. You lease five acres for a nice low price—and you get to use the rest of the place like it was your own.”

  He had it all wrong. She hastened to set him right. “The teachers’ association that owned it before—”

  “Gal. This ain’t before. This is now. And now, Sinclair Riker owns this ranch. And except for that five acres you won’t let go of, he’s got the right to do whatever he damn pleases with it—within the boundaries of the law, of course. And what does he do? He leaves the whole shebang to you.”

  “He didn’t leave it to me. He only said—”

  “You told me what he said. And it amounts to letting you have this place, to run it the way you want to for as long as you want to. Hell, this Sinclair Riker’s a damn hero, if you ask me. And any female worthy of the name Jones would chase him down and tell him so.” He put up both hands, then. “I know, I know. You’re a generous woman. You help out those in need. Everyone for miles around talks about you. They’ll be callin’ you Saint Sophie B. before too many more years. But it seems to me that you’re not so generous when it comes to the man you love.” He shook his head. “I am sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, gal. But someone has to. And bein’ as how we’re family—by name and feelin’, if not by blood—it falls to me to give it to you straight. And the straight story is, you’re mopin’ around now, because deep in your heart, you know you have let your man down.”