by Linda Seed
Gen hesitated. “In this case, yes, ma’am, it is.”
Sandra let out a belly laugh that made Ryan blink. Laughing was not something that came naturally to Sandra Delaney, nor was smiling, for that matter. And here he’d seen her smile and laugh, both, within the space of a few minutes. It was puzzling, but not entirely unwelcome.
Sandra waved Gen toward the kitchen. “Come on in here and we’ll have coffee.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Gen said. “I know Ryan must be busy. I’ve already taken up too much of his time.”
“Ryan’s busy, all right. That’s why I’m inviting you, and not him.” Sandra made a shooing motion toward Ryan.
Was that how a mother was supposed to treat her son? “Well, now, I’m not that busy … and I like coffee,” he said.
“You better go check on your father, give him a hand in the barn,” Sandra told him. “You know he’s not as young as he used to be.”
Ryan left the house reluctantly, bothered by the nagging sense that something had been plotted without his knowledge, something clear and obvious to the women but inaccessible to him. He had the sense that his mother had taken something important out of his hands, something fragile, like a newly hatched bird stretching its tiny wings, its eyes closed tight against the sun.
“Can I help?” Gen asked as Sandra led her into the kitchen and started getting out coffee filters and beans.
“I think I know how to make coffee by myself,” Sandra groused at her. “Been doing it for a good forty years. It’s good that you offered, though.” She nodded. “Shows manners. I’ve got no patience for people who don’t have manners.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Gen said, feeling like a Catholic school girl who’d narrowly escaped getting her knuckles rapped by the Mother Superior. “Have you lived on the ranch long?”
Sandra chuckled—a low and rough heh-heh sound. “Well, let’s see. I married Orin Delaney thirty-five years ago, and I moved to the ranch the day of the ceremony. So, I guess you could say I’ve been here a while.”
Gen sat at the kitchen table—a long, rectangular, solid-wood affair that was exactly what you’d expect to see in a farmhouse—and leaned forward on her elbows as Sandra turned on the coffee pot and started gathering cups, spoons, sugar, and milk.
“You don’t see a lot of cattle ranches in Manhattan,” Gen said.
“I guess not,” Sandra said. “You miss it?”
Gen thought about it. “I do. Everything is just so … busy in New York. There’s a sense of energy, a sense of importance. This feeling that you’re at the center of the world. But when I go back, I think I’ll miss this, too.”
Sandra turned to Gen and raised her eyebrows in question. “You’re going back to New York, are you?”
“Not right away. I’m not sure when. I need to work out some things first.”
Sandra carried a mug of hot coffee to the table and put it in front of Gen with a plate of big, puffy muffins. She sat across from Gen. “Now, me, you couldn’t pay me to live in a city. Just not how I’m built. Stick me in a tiny apartment in a twenty-story building, people all stacked up like books on a shelf?” She shook her head. “I couldn’t do it.”
Gen sipped at her truly excellent coffee and considered that. “I can understand feeling that way, if you’re used to this.” She gestured to include the house, the ranch, the land beyond. “There’s a kind of magic to being around all this nature.”
Sandra nodded approvingly. “A lot of people don’t get that.”
“I wouldn’t have before I moved here,” Gen said. “Cambria is special.”
“It is at that. Here, have one of these muffins. Breanna made them.”
“Mmm.” Banana walnut. Gen’s favorite.
Chapter Ten
“My ass is sore,” Gen complained to Lacy later that day, after she’d closed the gallery. She was sitting uncomfortably on one of the barstools at Jitters, drinking her third and last coffee of the day. Any more than that, and she’d be wide awake at one a.m. watching cat GIFs on Facebook. “I’d never been on a horse before in my life. How do people do it for more than a half-hour at a time?”
“Ass calluses?” Lacy suggested. She was bustling around behind the counter, an apron around her waist, making espresso and steaming milk. She managed to keep up her end of the conversation effortlessly while turning out hot beverages for the modest crowd in the coffee shop.
“Ryan’s ass must be like steel by now,” Gen said. “Oh, God.”
“ ‘Oh God’ what?”
“Just thinking about Ryan’s ass.”
Lacy grinned at her. “It is a nice one.”
Gen plucked a napkin from a nearby dispenser and started tearing it into tiny pieces. A little furrow formed between her eyebrows. “He makes me all gooey and stupid. Which is ridiculous, because he’s not interested in me.”
“What if he were?”
“What do you mean?”
“Gen.” Lacy reached over the counter and put a hand on Gen’s, stilling them. “Put down that poor napkin and focus.”
Gen did.
“What if he felt the same way about you that you do about him, and sparks were flying everywhere, and you two were crazy in love, with animated birds and kittens and unicorns and all of that crap?”
“I could go for that,” Gen offered.
“Yeah. You could go for it right up until you leave for New York. Which is what you’ve said you plan to do. Ryan’s not going anywhere. His family has been on that land for 170 years. What are you going to do, have a long-distance relationship while you’re three thousand miles apart?”
It surprised Gen that she hadn’t thought of it that way. Why hadn’t she? She knew she was planning to leave, and she knew Ryan never would.
“No. I guess I haven’t considered the realities, because it isn’t real. There’s nothing there. It’s just a fantasy. And that’s all it’s ever going to be.”
“Well … I wouldn’t count on that.”
Gen’s head snapped up and she looked at Lacy.
“What do you mean?”
She shrugged. “You never know, that’s all. You just never know.”
When Gordon Kendrick wasn’t grousing about the yogurt, he was bitching about something else. Less than a week after he’d moved into the guest cottage on the Delaney Ranch, he was on the phone with Gen, complaining that the bed linens weren’t organic, and that had caused an unsightly rash on the tender flesh of his thighs. Gen didn’t want to think about Gordon Kendrick’s thighs.
“I have sensitivities to environmental toxins,” Kendrick was going on. Gen had him on speakerphone in the gallery, and she was bustling about, doing her usual tasks, while he groused.
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” Gen said as she sorted bills and perused her e-mail.
“Yes, well. It’s difficult to be productive, from an artistic standpoint, when my system is out of sorts.”
“Because of the inorganic sheets,” Gen continued.
“Among other things.”
She wondered about the other things. What was he going to ask for next? A personal acupuncturist? An aromatherapy consultant?
“Well, you’re unlikely to find organic sheets in Cambria, since we lack a major department store,” she said, keeping her voice even. “But maybe if you drive into San Luis Obispo …”
“I don’t have a car at my disposal.”
Gen sighed and rolled her eyes. “I’m sure I can arrange for a rental car for you. Or, if you prefer, you can order the sheets online.”
Kate came through the front door of the gallery at that moment, and Gen gestured with her fist behind her head, throwing her head to the side and sticking her tongue out, in a mime of hanging herself.
“I had really hoped that you would attend to such things for me,” Kendrick went on over the speaker. “The whole point of a retreat such as this is that I should be able to focus on my work exclusively.”
“Mr. Kendrick …”
“Distractions like this … procuring bed linens and rental cars and the like … I don’t know how I’m supposed to work at my full potential.” His voice sounded whiny and petulant.
“Oh, miss? Miss?” Kate broke in. “How much is this painting? Miss?”
Gen smirked at her. “I’m sorry, Mr. Kendrick, but I have a guest in the gallery. Can we finish this conversation later?”
“Well, I …” Kendrick began.
“Miss! I want to buy several very expensive paintings but I’m in a terrible hurry!” Kate said.
“I’ll be right with you!” Gen said. “Mr. Kendrick, I have to hang up now. I’ll talk to you soon! You take care! Goodbye!” She punched the button to disconnect the phone and slumped against her desk in exaggerated exhaustion.
“God,” Gen said.
“That guy sounds like a real asshole,” Kate observed.
“You have no idea.”
Kate was carrying a small paper sack and two to-go cups of coffee. “I went to the donut place,” she said.
“Donuts?” Gen’s eyebrows rose. She didn’t usually eat junk food like donuts, but she’d skipped breakfast and her stomach was growling.
“Don’t worry. Donuts for me, an egg white wrap for you.”
“Oh, bless you. You’re a doll. I’m starving.”
Kate spread the food out on Gen’s desk and took a seat in her visitor’s chair while Gen settled in behind the desk. It was still early—before ten a.m.—and the gallery was empty.
“So, how’s married life?” Gen asked, taking the cover off of her coffee and taking a sip.
Kate snorted. “I’m hardly married.”
“You might as well be. I mean, you’ve got to pick up his dirty underwear. That’s like marriage. There’s dirty underwear, right? I’m assuming.”
“He mostly deals with his own dirty underwear.”
“Well, thank God for that.”
Kate broke off a piece of chocolate donut and popped it into her mouth. “It’s good. Really good. I’d thought it would be hard—the adjustment—but it just feels … right.”
“Oh, honey. That’s great.”
“Jackson is just … he’s everything Marcus wasn’t. He lets me be me. He …” She’d started tearing up, and she wiped at her eyes. “Oh, jeez. Look at me.” She let out a breathy laugh.
“That’s wonderful, Kate. I mean it.” And she did. While Gen had dealt with a lot of feelings when Jackson had moved into the house, she had to admit that her friend was practically glowing with happiness these days. She loved Kate, and so she loved Jackson, too, for making Kate feel this way.
If there was still a nagging feeling eating at her—a feeling that she wanted what Kate had but was worried that it might never happen—well, that was her own issue to deal with and it wasn’t something she should put on Kate.
“So, the artist is a real pain in the ass, huh?”
Gen was glad for the change in topic. “Oh, yeah. He needs special yogurt and special sheets, and he can’t be bothered to go online and order the crap he wants because he wants me to be his goddamned personal assistant.” Gen shook her head and bit into her egg white wrap. The eggs were steaming and fluffy.
“Can you just tell him no?”
Gen considered. “Yeah. I mean, there’s nothing in his contract that says I have to run errands and buy sheets for him. The deal was for transportation to and from Cambria and lodging while he’s here. But if he’s not happy …”
“Then he’s not going to take you along for the ride on his art success gravy train. When it happens,” Kate finished for her.
“Well … yeah. But it sounds bad when you say it like that.”
“Oh, it’s not,” Kate assured her. “Thinking strategically is just business. So what are you going to do?”
Gen shrugged. “I guess I’m going to buy some goddamned organic sheets and drive them out there.”
“Ooh. Maybe you’ll get to see Ryan again.” Kate waggled her eyebrows.
Gen had to admit, privately, that the thought had occurred to her. “Hmm? Ryan?” she said, as though she had no idea about whom Kate was speaking.
“Oh, drop the act. You’re not fooling anybody,” Kate said.
Gen’s shoulders slumped. “He’ll probably be out … oh, jeez, I don’t know … birthing calves or something. Or … or … checking the back forty. In movies, ranchers are always checking the back forty. I’m going to bring sheets to the asshole artist and I’m not even going to get eye candy.”
“Hmm,” Kate said.
“What?”
“Maybe there’s a reason you’ll have to run into him.” She sipped her coffee. “Let me think about it.”
Chapter Eleven
Kate did think about it, and the idea she came up with was for Gen to bring Kendrick the sheets and then deliver the old sheets, washed and neatly folded, to the main house to give to Ryan.
“But couldn’t I just put them in a closet at the guest house?” Gen had asked, not unreasonably.
“You could, but then you wouldn’t get eye candy,” Kate said.
Gen calculated that her best bet for finding Ryan at home would be to go after dark. Did ranchers work after dark? Could they even see the cows? If it was calving season, she supposed he might be busy in the barn. She imagined him having to shove his arm up inside some poor cow to turn a calf around, and inwardly winced. Sure, it was possible she still might miss him. But an evening visit would be her best bet.
She sent Alex, her assistant, to the Pottery Barn in San Luis Obispo to buy organic sheets. She thought of having him take the sheets to Kendrick and bring back the others so she could wash them at home, but she didn’t know if Alex—a guy who wasn’t known for his diplomacy—had the necessary people skills to smooth over whatever the hell it was Kendrick would be upset about this time. So she left him in charge of the gallery and went out there herself.
When she knocked on the door of the little guest cottage just after six p.m., nobody answered at first. She was just about to conclude that Kendrick was in the old barn painting—a happy thought—when she heard feet shuffling just on the other side of the door.
He opened the door looking bleary-eyed. His hair was askew, sticking up in various directions from his scalp. He was unshaven, with a shadow of stubble covering his chin. He was wearing nothing but a drawstringed pair of pajama pants, his bare feet looking somehow sad and vulnerable.
“Mr. Kendrick?” she said tentatively. His pale chest looked somehow shrunken without the fortifying cover of a shirt.
“Oh. Genevieve. Hello.” He scratched absently at one elbow.
“I brought the organic sheets you requested,” she said, holding up the neatly folded pile of linens. “Is this a good time?”
“A good time?” He said it as though he were working out the translation from Sanskrit.
“Yes. A good time to bring the sheets. I thought I’d just put these on your bed and collect the old ones. Is this a good time?”
“Oh. I guess so.” He stepped back to let her in.
“You might want to …” She gestured vaguely toward his chest. “Just put on … you know. A shirt.”
He looked down at himself as though he hadn’t noticed he was missing one. “Oh. Of course. Just a second.”
Kendrick went into the bedroom and closed the door. It gave Gen a moment to survey the condition of the guest house.
The little dining table was covered with empty food containers and crumpled pieces of sketch paper. The kitchen counters held drinking glasses, forks and spoons, an empty granola box. A half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels stood next to the sink. The floor was littered with discarded clothing.
A moment later, Kendrick emerged from the bedroom wearing a white T-shirt and a rumpled pair of khakis. His pale, innocent feet were still uncovered, the toes sprouting a meager crop of hair.
“Okay. You can do the sheets now.”
Gen ventured tentatively into the bedroom and found more chaos. Clothi
ng, more crumpled sketch paper, empty cups with a dark residue of coffee shadowing the bottoms.
She changed the sheets, made the bed neatly, and came out into the main room, holding the used sheets in her arms. They smelled faintly of whiskey. Gen wondered whether he’d spilled some of the Jack Daniels on the sheets, or whether it had simply emitted from his pores.
She felt a low rumble of panic in her belly. This wasn’t good—wasn’t good at all.
“Mr. Kendrick?”
“Oh, just call me Gordon.” He waved an arm dismissively.
“Okay. Gordon. Um … Why don’t we have a seat on the sofa and chat for a little bit?”
She looked over at the sofa and saw that it was buried under dirty clothes, used towels, and other detritus. She set the sheets down on the coffee table and cleared off the sofa.
When they were sitting, him slumped and foggy, her perched primly on the edge of the cushion, she proceeded carefully.
“How are things going out here, Mr. Kendrick? Gordon,” she corrected herself.
“Oh, fine,” he said. He seemed to have barely heard her.
“Really? Because … Well. It looks as though maybe you’re having some difficulty.”
He looked around the little house and blinked.
“How is your work coming?” Gen ventured.
His gaze fell upon a pile of crumpled sketch paper on the coffee table. He rubbed at his forehead with one hand.
“My work is …” He trailed off and shook his head.
She reached out and picked up one of the crumpled pieces of paper between two fingers. “May I?”
He waved a hand to gesture his assent.
Carefully, she opened the piece of paper and smoothed it on her lap.
The paper was a jumble of pencil marks, slashes, swirls, hints of geometric shapes.
“Is this an idea for a new abstract?” she guessed.
“No. No, Genevieve.” He took the paper from her. “This … is dog excrement.” He crumpled it again and threw it back onto the pile on the table.
Uh-oh. That was just what she needed. To bring an artist out here and have him suffer a complete collapse of confidence. She sighed.
“Have you been working?” she said. “I mean … beyond the sketches?”