The kid was appeased, at least for the time being. “Hurry up and finish, Dad,” he urged, with a nod at J.T.’s plate. “I want to see some more old pictures and stuff.”
Half on hour later, with Quinn settled into bed, J.T. perched on the mattress edge with a boot-box full of memorabilia in his lap. One photo, enclosed in a cardboard studio folder, was of a very young Jack Wainwright wearing an army uniform and a G.I. haircut. Although he was smiling, the haunted look in his eyes indicated that the portrait had been made after Vietnam, not before. He wished he’d asked more questions when his father was still around, but it had always seemed they had time.
Other pictures, all of them black-and-white, with zigzag edges and lots of double exposures and splashes of stray light, showed Jack and Becky dressed for a dance. Jack and Becky on horses. Jack and Becky, newly married, standing on the steps of Springwater’s one and only church. There were letters, too, and old dance cards from proms at Springwater High.
Quinn pressed a fingertip to the image of a sturdy, solemn-eyed baby sitting under a Christmas tree, surrounded by packages. “Is that you?”
J.T. nodded. Look at that puss, he thought. Even then I was a cynic.
By the time they’d gone through a number of newspaper clippings, report cards, elementary school artwork, and the like, Quinn was yawning.
“Time to snooze, buddy,” J.T. said. By then Winston had curled up on the foot of Quinn’s bed and gone comatose, while Blackie lay on the floor, muzzle on paws, one bleary eye open and watchful.
Quinn threw both arms around J.T.’s neck and squeezed. “ ’Night, Dad,” he said.
J.T. swallowed, kissed the boy’s forehead. “ ’Night,” he replied.
He switched off the bedside lamp and left the room, leaving the door ajar and the hallway light on, the way Quinn liked. Downstairs, he got himself another cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table to take a closer look at the stuff in the box.
His attention kept going back to one particular photo, a group shot of a bunch of teenagers on some kind of picnic, right there on the Wainwright ranch, he would have bet. Somewhere in the hills, back of the house. They were all grinning and cocky, these kids, a really retro bunch in their hip-hugger pants, granny dresses, and tie-dyed T-shirts—except for his dad, that is. Jack was pure, timeless cowboy, clad in scuffed boots, jeans, and a chambray shirt, western cut. The expression in his eyes said he knew full well that he was different from the others, and that he thrived on the knowledge. His arm was draped loosely over Becky’s shoulders, and she was looking up at him like he was made out of ice cream. He recognized other people, too, ones with familiar names like Hargreaves and McCaffrey, Kildare and Parrish.
He squinted at the picture; behind the group loomed the timber framework to support some kind of drilling apparatus. “What the hell?” he murmured, trying to remember if a well had been dug on that part of the ranch.
He turned the picture over, let his gaze slide through the names penned in his mother’s handwriting. Not surprisingly, there was no reference to the work site in the background.
The Wainwrights always knew what had been done to their land, and when, and J.T. regarded himself as no exception to the rule. It bugged him that he couldn’t recall this particular place.
A feeling of nostalgia swept over him; he missed his dad, missed the woman his mother had only sometimes been. He sighed and glanced toward the phone on the wall, near the door to the dining room, then at the clock on the stove. By Vegas standards, he decided, it wasn’t all that late. Anyway, Becky was a night owl.
He crossed to the telephone, lifted the receiver, and punched in the number he rarely called. “Hi, Becky,” he said, when she answered..
She drew in her breath, probably bracing herself for some new confrontation. “J.T.?” she asked cautiously.
He smiled. “The same,” he said.
“Is something the matter?”
“No,” he lied. “I just called to see how you’re doing.”
“Fancy that,” said Becky, who had rewritten history to suit herself, in her mind at least, and therefore regarded herself as a dedicated mother, wrongly accused of neglect and a host of other sins.
“Mom,” he said, cajoling her a little.
He felt her relax slightly. “I’m just fine,” she allowed. “How about you?” How was it, he wondered, that a mother and son could have so little to say to each other?
Well, he imagined himself saying, somebody burned down my barn and blew up the trailer house—that was after Clive bought the farm out at the water tower, mind you—and Maggie McCaffrey is driving me crazy. Except for those things, Mother, I’m just fine.
“I’m O.K.,” he said, and he didn’t have the vaguest idea what to say next.
Her voice turned girlish. “I’m in love,” she confided breathlessly, as though this had never happened before, to her or any other woman.
Now there was a flash. “That’s great, Mom,” he said.
“I understand Quinn is there with you.”
“Yes,” J.T. replied. “It’s temporary.”
“Well, of course it is,” she responded. “Annie’s his mother. A child belongs—”
J.T. closed his eyes. If there was one thing he could live without, it was a discourse on parenting from Becky. She seemed to sense his reaction and stopped midsentence.
“What was it you wanted, J.T.?” she asked, with a sort of stabbing brightness meant to convey that she was willing to pretend her only son cared about her, whether it was true or not.
J.T. went to the length of the phone cord to grasp a chair from next to the table, drag it across the linoleum, and drop into it. He didn’t know what he wanted, but whatever it was, Becky couldn’t give it to him. “Just to say hello.” He sounded lame, even to himself.
“I was thinking I might bring Buck to meet you,” she said.
“Sure,” J.T. said, but it took him too long.
“Well, I guess I’d better say good night,” Becky said, with a false note of cheer meant to gloss over the fact that even though they each had a telephone receiver in their hand, the lines between them had been cut a long time before.
“Right,” he agreed, feeling that old, familiar sorrow.
“I’ll talk to you soon,” Becky promised, then hung up.
He stared at the receiver for a long moment, then put it back in its cradle with a slight click. Still wondering what he’d hoped to accomplish by making the call in the first place, he locked the doors, shut off the lights, and headed upstairs to get ready for bed.
Hands resting on her hips, Maggie contemplated the new addition to her household, a mass of brown-and-white fur with eyes. Sadie sat in a spill of sunlight from the window, head tilted to one side, ears cocked in perplexity. “What shall we call her, Sadie?” Maggie asked, not expecting an answer, of course. “She needs a name.”
“How about Ethel?” piped a familiar voice from the front doorway of the Station, standing open to a fresh breeze. Kathleen McCaffrey came in. “Where is everybody?”
“Ethel?” Maggie echoed, a beat behind. Then, catching up, she spread her arms to take in the empty tables surrounding them. “The reporters have moved on to bigger and better things. Cindy’s ankles were swollen and she felt sick to her stomach, so Daphne drove her out to the ranch.”
“I do hope you can make this old place pay,” Kathleen said. “Maybe you should put in a gift shop.”
So that’s where I got it, Maggie thought. This need of mine to have all my ducks in a row, at all times. It gave her an insight into her mother’s reluctance to leave Springwater and go traveling in the RV with Reece, too.
Kathleen went right on chatting, turning the subject back to the dog. “Ethel was my favorite aunt’s name. Positively hated it. She called herself Isadora instead, after the dancer.”
Maggie chuckled and shook her head. A person could get whiplash trying to hold onto a thread of Kathleen’s conversation. “I guess Ethel is as good a name
as any.”
Kathleen crossed the room and dropped gracefully to one knee to gaze into the dog’s liquid brown eyes. “Yes,” she said, “I believe it suits. Just the other night, I saw a program on PBS, all about how keeping a pet can lower a person’s blood pressure—”
“How would you like to adopt a dog?” Maggie asked, inspired. Kathleen’s face reflected a wide range of emotions, all in the space of a few moments: resistence, solemn contemplation, happy decision. “Why not?” she asked.
“I’ve always wanted a dog of my very own.”
“Why not indeed?” Maggie agreed. As children, she and her brothers had kept a progression of pets, everything from hamsters, rabbits, and kittens to a sweet-tempered St. Bernard called Harriet, but each one had belonged to one of them specifically. Kathleen had always been on the fringes.
Now woman and dog were clearly bonding, and the sight cheered Maggie, though she felt a pang, realizing how very many little things she didn’t know about her mother. “Aren’t you a homely thing?” Kathleen asked Ethel, with boundless affection.
Ethel gave a compliant little whimper, and Kathleen patted her reassuringly before turning her attention back to Maggie again. “Of course,” Kathleen said, “I didn’t come here to take a stray off your hands, Margaret Corrine.”
Maggie smiled. “Whatever your reasons, I’m glad to see you, and so is Ethel. Can I get you a cup of tea?”
Kathleen shook her head. “No, thanks, dear. I’m in something of a hurry. I just wanted to talk to you about the barn raising at J.T.’s ranch. Everybody’s gathering there a week from Saturday morning, dressed to work. I’m in charge of arranging for the food supply. There’s going to be a barbeque in the evening, and a dance after that. Sort of an unofficial kickoff to Founder’s Day.”
Maggie waited.
“I’ll understand if you can’t leave the Station,” Kathleen rushed on. “I know you’re busy getting the business up and running—but I hope you’ll contribute something—you know, fried chicken, pie, potato salad.”
Maggie was relieved to see her mother caught up in something besides the problems at home. “Put me down for a bucket of take-out chicken,” she said.
Kathleen smiled, nodded.
“How’s the painting going?” Maggie prompted, not wanting the conversation to end too quickly. Since the strain had developed between her parents, they’d both become somewhat inaccessible, and she’d missed them very much. Even the most ordinary exchange was welcome.
Kathleen sighed. “I just can’t seem to get the hang of artichokes. I guess I’m not ready.” Laughter lit her eyes and played on her generous mouth. “It would seem that I am still in my Pear Period.”
Maggie grinned. “Do not despair,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll move on to bigger and better vegetables and fruits in good time.”
“Yes,” Kathleen said, looking thoughtful again. She’d taken a seat on one of the benches, despite her earlier insistence that she was in a hurry, her back to the trestle table. Distractedly, she stroked Ethel’s head, now resting trustingly in her lap.
Maggie sat down beside her. “What is it, Mom?” she asked, very softly, and against her better judgment.
Kathleen sighed. “There are some things, Margaret Corrine, that a mother finds difficult to discuss—especially with her daughter.”
“Okay,” Maggie said, but she took her mother’s hand, and squeezed it lightly. “Just remember that I’m here, and I love you and Dad with all my heart. I’ll help in any way I can.”
Kathleen started to speak, thought better of the idea, and averted her eyes for a long moment. “Thank you, dear,” she said softly, meeting Maggie’s gaze again. Then she stood, surveying the dog, newly christened Ethel, with rueful delight. “How did I let you talk me into this, Margaret?” she asked.
Maggie grinned. “Too late,” she said. Then she slipped into her office and came out with a leash, which she clipped to Ethel’s collar. “She’s all yours.”
Kathleen shook her head, but she was smiling. She took the leash and held it firmly. “You’ll be attending the barn raising, then?”
“I suppose,” Maggie answered, with a nonchalance she didn’t really feel. The gathering would be held at the Wainwright place, of course, and that meant she would see J.T. She felt an almost reckless thrill of excitement at the prospect, though she was determined to keep her wits about her. Not an easy task, when J.T. was around.
Kathleen sighed, and a dreamy expression came into her eyes. “I met your father at a barn dance, you know,” she reflected. Ethel, evidently anxious to begin her new life in the McCaffrey household, was tugging at her end of the leash, easing toward the door.
Maggie knew the story, but she liked hearing it, so she waited.
“It was after a roundup out at the Kildare place,” Kathleen went on. “There was a huge harvest moon, orange as a pumpkin—” She stopped, flushed a little. “But of course I’ve told you about that night a thousand times already.”
Kathleen had just moved to Springwater with her parents and, although she’d attended secretarial school in Missoula and gotten good grades, there were few office jobs to be had. She’d waited tables at the Stagecoach CafÈ and quickly made friends with Janeen Wainwright, J.T.’s aunt. Janeen had persuaded her to attend the dance. There she’d met Reece McCaffrey, who had just taken over the family milling and lumber business, and immediately fallen in love with him. A year later, they married, and soon after their second anniversary, Kathleen had given birth to Simon. Maggie had come along a few years later, soon to be followed by Wes.
Maggie kissed her mother’s cheek. “Tell me again,” she said gently. It was a romantic story, and she loved it.
But a look of sadness came over Kathleen’s lovely face. “That was all so long ago,” she said. “So much has changed between your father and I.”
Maggie sat still, afraid to speak, vastly uncomfortable in the silence.
“You know, of course, that Helen Bisbee’s husband ran off with someone he met on the Internet,” Kathleen said, staring straight ahead, at some inner vista that obviously caused her intense pain. “And your father’s been exchanging emails with a woman over in Missoula. Her name is Abigail.”
Maggie felt as though she’d been punched. Her next reaction was disbelief. “There must be some mistake. Did you read the messages? Did you ask Dad about them?”
Kathleen’s face stiffened slightly, and her backbone went rigid. “I do not read other people’s mail,” she said, “electronic or otherwise. But there’s no mistake. He’s been communicating with this woman for over a year.”
“And,” Maggie insisted, “you’ve asked him for an explanation?”
“Once or twice,” Kathleen admitted. “He said she was a retired travel agent. They talk about ‘faraway places with strange sounding names,’ as he put it.”
“Then maybe—”
“I have reason to believe he’s been seeing her. In person, I mean.”
“What reason?” Maggie asked, even though she really, truly did not want to know.
“She sent him a card for his birthday, by way of the post office, and he didn’t even try to hide the thing. Left it right on his desk in the study. She wrote, ‘Looking forward to our next visit. Love, Abigail.’ ”
Maggie swallowed. Not Dad, she thought. But at the same time, she knew that Reece McCaffrey was a man, nothing more, nothing less, with a man’s weaknesses. “Talk to him,” she urged.
Kathleen glanced at her watch, worked up a brave smile, and neatly disposed of the conversation they’d just had by consigning it to the dimension of denial. “I’ll put you down for chicken,” she said, and Maggie had to scramble to recall that she was referring to the community meal to be served at J.T.’s barn raising. With that, she and Ethel were gone.
12
Odell Hough woke himself with a snort from the depths of his sinus passages and sat bolt upright on the bare mattress ticking, blinking and murmuring. He ran a hand down his
face and blinked in an effort to clear his vision. It was midafternoon and hot, and the rank smells of sweat and mold and stale beer rose with his stirring. He grumbled a curse, groped for the flask on his night table, and tilted his head back for a snort.
“I don’t know how you and Randy stand this hole,” remarked a familiar voice from the bedroom doorway, causing him to choke on the whiskey. He nearly jumped right out of his hide, too. “When was the last time you hosed the place out?”
Odell damn near dropped the flask, which pissed him off royal. It was one thing to scare a man half to death in his own house and another to endanger his dwindling supply of firewater. He ignored the question, counting it rude. “Damn it,” he snarled, “at least I got the manners not to walk in on a man without so much as a knock at the door. You could get yourself shot, doing that.”
The visitor laughed. “Hell, I could hear you in here snoring like a pig from all the way out on the porch,” he said. “If I’d waited for a come-in from you, old buddy, I’d have been standing out there all day.” He looked around at the room Odell’s wife, Mary Lee, God rest her soul, had once kept so neat and tidy. “I don’t see a gun, either. Not that you could hit the side of a billboard if you were standing on a scaffold beside it.”
It would be a waste of breath to go on arguing with this particular hombre; Odell had figured that out some time back. “What do you want, anyhow?” he demanded, still feeling testy. He lumbered to his feet and headed toward his uninvited caller, who didn’t step out of the way until Odell was practically on top of him.
“Now what kind of greeting is that?” the man asked. He liked to be called Boss, and though Odell knew his right name, he didn’t dare use it. That privilege was reserved for fancier folks than him. “Maybe I just dropped by for a friendly chat.”
Odell gave a gruff hoot of laughter and proceeded down the hallway to the bathroom, where he relieved himself in the rust-rimmed bowl. Since Cindy had gotten herself knocked up and left him and Randy to fend for themselves, just as if they weren’t any say-so of hers, he didn’t bother much with closing doors. As an afterthought, he flushed, and there was a howling rattle in the pipes, like a banshee beating on a soup kettle. Hell. Next thing he knew, the plumbing would be gone, like the furnace and the floorboards around the old claw-foot tub.
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