Adobe Palace

by Joyce Brandon

  On the following Monday a letter came from Lance. Surprised, Samantha tore it open and rushed inside to read it in privacy.

  Dear Sam,

  Thanks for the party invitation. I’ll be there, but I need to talk to you sooner than that. So, unless I hear from you otherwise, I’m coming to see you on Wednesday. I have a great deal to tell you and share with you, but the important thing is that you were right to send me to see Angie.

  I went to San Francisco and found her. It was painful and worse than my worst nightmares, but it’s over now, and I’m free at last. And in getting free I realized something very important and miraculous about you that I think it best to tell you in person. Until I see you, please know that you are always in my heart.

  Lance

  Samantha read the letter three times. That night she dreamed that the main house Steve had built for her had somehow moved on its foundation and now sat next to Steve’s cottage. The two were so close together she couldn’t tell where one started and the other left off. The wood appeared to have merged with the adobe.

  It was such an upsetting dream she woke in the middle of the night crying, and she hadn’t done that in years.

  Tuesday was hot. Tristera felt tired and restless at the same time. Something tugged at her, made her irritable. Finally, to stop the tugging, she took one of the horses and rode down the hill.

  At first she didn’t know where she was going, but she knew she had no choice. If she was to have any rest at all, she had to do this thing that seemed to have something to do with the old house.

  She followed her instincts. An hour later the mare stopped beside the graves of Silver Fish’s family. Tristera slipped off and knelt to pay her respects. Then she followed the pull within her and walked to the place where the tepee had been. As she neared it, a cold chill crept into her and caused her to stop. Now she knew why she’d been summoned. The spirits of Young Hawk and his family were still here.

  Tristera backed away from the place where their tepee had stood. The day was hot, but gooseflesh pimpled her arms. Turning, she ran back to her horse.

  The next day, she approached Samantha. “Will you ride with me today?”

  Tristera rarely asked anything of Samantha. It took her by surprise. “Where?”

  “To the place where the Indians camped.”

  Samantha shook her head. “That place has bad memories for me. I’d rather not.”

  “It is important.”

  “Why?”

  “I have to show you something.”

  “What?”

  “I think the spirits of the dead Indians are still there.”

  Samantha searched Tristera’s pretty face, saw the fear and certainty there. Tristera had somehow frightened herself. Samantha was expecting Lance today, but perhaps it would be good to ride down and meet his train. That way she wouldn’t have to worry about his finding the trail up to the new house.

  “All right, I’ll go with you…to show you they aren’t there.”

  Tristera nodded. She didn’t care why.

  After breakfast, she and Tristera rode down the mountainside. As they approached the old house and creek, Samantha grew reluctant. Just seeing that spot from a distance called up all those painful memories. She could almost feel the Indian baby in her arms.

  Tristera dismounted and knelt beside the graves. Reluctantly, Samantha knelt beside her. Tristera said a short prayer and walked to where the tepee had been. Samantha expected to feel nothing, but as she neared the place where the tepee had been, a chill tingled her skin, growing colder and more intense until she could not force herself any nearer.

  “You feel it too, don’t you?” Tristera whispered.

  “No…no. I don’t feel anything.”

  Tristera reacted to the answer she saw in Samantha’s eyes, not to her words. She breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s them.”

  Samantha didn’t want to agree, but in her soul, she knew. “Let’s get away from here.”

  They mounted and rode toward the old house. Samantha saw the feathery plume of smoke from a distant train also headed toward the house. Apparently Lance was right on time.

  The locomotive reached the house at the same time as Samantha and Tristera. Lance leaped down and walked toward them, smiling. He looked thinner and handsomer than she remembered. Samantha dismounted and ran into his arms.

  Lance held her tight for a long time. Then he stepped back a little. “You look so good to me,” he said, his eyes telling her he didn’t lie. He looked wonderful to her, too.

  “Come in out of the heat,” she said, tugging on his brick-brown hand.

  They tramped through the sand and onto the porch to get out of the sun. “Don’t you want to go up to the house?” she asked.

  “I can see the house when it’s finished.”

  “I’ll wait for you in the shade behind the house,” Tristera said softly.

  Samantha flashed the girl a look of gratitude and led Lance toward the swing that still hung on the porch.

  “I got a letter from Jennie,” she said, sweeping aside spider webs and sitting down.

  Lance scowled. “I asked her not to tell you that I’d been hurt. I know I shouldn’t have done that, but I was in such a rotten state when I came home from San Francisco that I didn’t want to see anyone.”

  “What happened?”

  Lance inhaled a heavy breath. “Angie’s having an affair with her editor.”

  “I don’t believe it,” she said firmly.

  “Well, it’s true. She was quite blatant about it.”

  Samantha swatted at a fly that had settled on her arm. “Angie isn’t the type. Are you sure she wasn’t lying to you?”

  “Why the hell would she lie to me?”

  “I don’t know, but I just can’t believe it.”

  Pain clouded Lance’s fine blue eyes. Samantha got a glimpse of something raw and aching. Then he shrugged, and the image was gone.

  “Believe it, Sam. I do, and it has freed me.” He paused. They sat in silence a moment. Then he turned to her. His eyes searched hers. “Have I waited too long?”

  “No. No, of course not,” she whispered. He sighed, pulled her into his arms, and cradled her close to him. She could feel the heavy beating of his heart, and she realized that she was in love with both of them. She had denied her love for Steve, but it was as real as this.

  “Come with me, Sam.”

  “Where?” she asked, drawing back, frowning up at his troubled, handsome face.

  “I have to go back to San Francisco soon, and that’s going to be a nightmare. I need you now. I need to spend time with you.”

  “Where would we go?” she asked, stalling.

  “Denver, Los Angeles, wherever you want to go.”

  “But the house—”

  “It’ll still be here when we get back.”

  “What will we do?” she asked.

  “Have you forgotten that people go places just to enjoy themselves and relax?”

  “But…”

  “No buts. Tell Tristera you’ll be back in a week or so.”

  “But, I have nothing to wear,” she protested.

  “I have money. Last time I checked, far more than I’ll ever need. And so do you.”

  “But…”

  “Tell her,” Lance urged, burying his face against her throat. Slowly, as he held her, the feeling of being safe returned, and Samantha relaxed.

  “Tell her, Sam,” he urged.

  “Okay,” she said. “It’ll take a moment.”

  Lance grinned. “Stop frowning. This isn’t the end of the world. It’s the beginning.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  March Newman grimaced and yelled at her daughter, “Savannah Newman, stop that!”

  Savannah appeared not to hear her mother. Angie Kincaid looked over at her friend. March’s soft, round, pretty face clearly reflected irritation that Savannah continued to fill her bucket with sand and pour it on her little brother’s head.

 
“I’m sure this new ritual must have some special significance,” March said, grinning ruefully with the good humor Angie was accustomed to seeing in the woman who had, in a very short time, become her best friend. They were at a public beach watching March’s children play. The weather was unseasonably warm for early October. So half the city had turned out to enjoy it. The beach was crowded with families and couples.

  March’s little girl, Savannah, was seven. Her son, Jeffrey, was two. Jeffrey whimpered and tried to cover his head to block his sister’s actions. “Savannah!” March said a little louder. “Stop that!”

  A wave of nausea almost overwhelmed Angie. She stood up and walked blindly away from the pallet they had shared.

  “Hey, where are you going?” March called after her.

  Angie couldn’t answer. She waved her hand in desperation, but March jumped up and followed her anyway.

  “Is it time to go home?” March asked. “Hey, are you sick again? You poor thing. I’ve never seen anyone with such persistent morning sickness. It seems to last the whole day,” she said, her pretty green eyes shining with sympathy. “Hey, you’re crying,” she said, catching up with her. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m just tired of being sick, I guess,” Angie said, lying and sniffing back tears. She hated seeing anyone be mean to a young child. It just killed her.

  “Well, I understand completely. I was only sick for the first few months each time I was expecting. And that was way too much. Do you want to go home?”

  “It won’t be any different at home,” Angie said, groping for a handkerchief in the pocket of her coat. “I’ll just be throwing up in more familiar surroundings.”

  “Well, honey,” March said, hugging her, “you’ve been through hell in the last few weeks. You have every right to cry or be sick. Crying might even be good for you.”

  That night Angie couldn’t sleep. She felt sick at heart. The trial date was set. Now she had two weeks in which to worry about facing her husband in court and going through a rotten, demeaning ritual. She didn’t mind for herself, but it had been clear to her that despite Lance’s stoicism, he was taking this hard. Remembering his face when she told him she was having an affair with Hal Stockton made her stomach hurt.

  She punched up a pillow and rested her left leg over it, taking some of the pressure off her back, which was more prone to ache now if she stayed in one position too long. She still felt sick, but she couldn’t tell if vomiting would help. Periodically, almost like clockwork, she’d throw up and then be ravaged by hunger almost instantly. She’d eat something then feel sick again. Sometimes she could slip by without vomiting. But not usually. This went on all day. Fortunately March seemed to understand how she could throw up and then be immediately hungry. Lance had been aghast by her doing that during her last pregnancy.

  Angie closed her eyes and saw again the image of her husband scowling at her in consternation—because that’s what he did when he felt helpless to relieve her suffering. His face seemed so real and so dear that she felt as if she could reach into her mind and touch it, feel his warm skin and the way it smelled when she woke up next to him in bed in the morning.

  Her soon to be ex-husband. Unexpectedly she started to cry and couldn’t seem to stop. She cried until her eyes hurt, and still she couldn’t sleep.

  She felt hungry, but she didn’t feel like throwing up again, so she decided not to eat anything else. She tossed and turned until her clock chimed three A.M. Aching from head to toe, she struggled out of bed, stood up, and waddled to the window. She was beginning to feel like a belly with legs. The night was still and cold. The smell of smoke tingled her nostrils. She looked back at her room and saw that the top one-third of it was filling with a gray mist.

  Alarmed, she ran from room to room, checking for any sign of fire. Then she saw smoke pouring under the door that connected her half of the brownstone to March’s. “Oh, no!” she screamed, rushing forward to pound on the door. “March! March! Fire! Fire!” she screamed.

  Smoke pouring from under the door burned her eyes. She picked up a heavy chair and used it as a battering ram on the door. Then she heard March’s voice, and the door swung open.

  “What?” March asked, dazed with sleep.

  “Fire!” Angie said, ignoring her friend and surveying the apartment behind her. A reddish glow flickered in March’s kitchen. “It’s in the kitchen,” Angie yelled. “Help me get the kids out.”

  Still stunned and half-asleep, March followed Angie into the children’s bedroom. Angie took Jeffrey, and March took Savannah. The children’s room was closer to the kitchen and already filled with smoke. Jeffrey was coughing in his sleep. Savannah woke instantly and was terrified. Together, Angie and March made their way to the front door and into the cold, clear air. March left the children with Angie and ran to wake up their neighbors.

  Fire trucks arrived too late to save the brownstone. Four families, two upstairs and two downstairs, lost all of their possessions. The fire had started in an upstairs heater and burned through into March’s kitchen. Fortunately Angie had gotten into the habit of leaving her camera equipment at her studio, which was provided now by her publisher. All she lost were her personal articles. She’d rented the apartment furnished.

  Angie and March moved into a nearby hotel. A local newspaper ran a story about the fire, and gifts poured in. By the end of the second day, March and the children had coats and shoes and clothes. Angie declined donations for herself. She had money and enjoyed shopping, which was unlike her. Usually she kept so busy shopping was a nuisance. But since leaving Lance, she seemed to have less energy for work and more time.

  She hadn’t been hurt, but the fire had left her strangely shaken. Two days after the move to the hotel, Angie was still upset, with no idea why. She cried easily and often. She decided to talk to March. She waited until tea time. She and March and the children had tea together on Sundays, if neither of them had other plans.

  Angie ordered tea and cakes from room service and invited March over. She waited until the children had finished their tea and cakes and gone into the bedroom to play.

  They ate their cake in companionable silence. Then Angie put down her fork. “March…”

  “Yes, sweetie.”

  “You’ve been a good friend to me. Can I ask you a deeply personal question?”

  “Of course.” March squared her shoulders in preparation.

  “I’ve been crying ever since the fire, and I don’t know why.”

  “You don’t know why?” March asked in amazement. “Well, how about getting a divorce from a man you obviously still love, being alone through a pregnancy that should be a time of joy and closeness in your life, and being burned out of your apartment by a careless neighbor? How’s that for starters?”

  “I don’t think it’s that simple,” Angie said, shaking her head. “Those things don’t make me cry. This feels like a bigger wound, a deeper wound. One I don’t even seem to know about. Maybe one I don’t want to know about.”

  “Well, what could it be?”

  “I don’t know.” But Angie’s mind flashed an image in response to March’s question, and hot tears flooded her eyes.

  “Ohhhh,” March breathed. “You do know,” she said, leaning forward to hug her.

  Angie did know. Images came as if in a kaleidoscope, searing her with grief. She cried freely for a moment, and then struggled for control. “Maybe,” she admitted shakily.

  “Can you tell me?”

  Angie dragged in a ragged breath. “When I was little, I think I was probably seven like Savannah…my little brother died. I loved him so much…and his dying hurt me so deeply. He was like my own little child. I was totally engrossed with him. My mother was a wonderful mother, but she was overwhelmed with Laramee and me and my father and cooking and cleaning and trying to grow enough food to keep us all alive. I didn’t have anything else to do, there was no school in our little town, so I took care of the baby. He was sickly and needed a lot of attenti
on. He had croup. Anyway, he became my entire life. I slept with him and carried him into my mother’s bed for his nighttime feedings. She didn’t even have to wake up. Then one night there was a fire in the kitchen. We put it out without anyone getting burned, but when I went to check on the baby, he wouldn’t wake up. The doctor said he died of smoke inhalation. Probably because his lungs were weak anyway—”

  Her face crumpled, and she couldn’t continue for a moment. “Anyway,” she said, wiping tears aside with an impatient hand. “I had a miscarriage a few years ago…and it hurt so bad to lose that unborn child…I remember thinking that I hoped I never got pregnant again.” Angie’s voice broke, and she covered her face with her hands. The pain was hot and awful, and she wished she hadn’t remembered.

  “Poor baby,” March said, stroking Angie’s hand.

  “It hurt so bad when he died,” Angie whispered. “Do you think it’s possible that maybe…I kept myself from getting pregnant all these years because I didn’t want to risk losing another baby?”

  “To anyone but me that would probably sound odd, but I have no problem believing it,” March said firmly. “I could tell you stories about women who’ve done more bizarre things than that. And honey, you love so deeply, even now. And love and everything else is stronger when we’re children. I watch my children, and they feel everything with so much power and passion. All their emotions are so much stronger.”

  “I remember looking for him and asking my mother when he was going to come back. She said, He’s dead, Angie. He isn’t coming back. But I just couldn’t seem to remember that. I kept expecting him to be where he was supposed to be. And the look in her eyes when she had to tell me just killed me. I’ve never felt anything so awful…”

  “Oh, sweet heaven, you poor little creature.”

  “Maybe I’m just a coward. I forgot my brother, and I didn’t remember him until this week.”