Amanda chuckled, but Beverly’s words stirred a chord of memory in the depths of her mind, a thought that had been nagging at her ever since they’d left the wedding party at the Double C and started the forty-mile journey back to Austin.
“Bev,” she began slowly, “do you remember that English literature class we took in our sophomore year? I think it was called Late Victorian Poetry, something like that?”
Beverly didn’t appear to hear the question. She was gazing out the side window at the neon signs and lighted storefronts that lined the highway for miles on the way into Austin.
“Bev?” Amanda repeated, wondering why this whole question suddenly seemed so important.
“Hmm?” Beverly asked, turning to look over at her friend. “What were you saying, Mandy? Something about college?”
“Our sophomore-year English class,” Amanda repeated patiently. “Do you remember it?”
Beverly chuckled. “Who could forget? Old Professor Starcross, with all that awful hair in his ears and the same mustard stain on his tie for the entire term—what a scream.”
“Do you remember any of the poetry we studied?”
Beverly opened the glove compartment, rummaging idly for a pack of mints. “I certainly remember the Brownings,” she said, popping a mint into her mouth and passing another to her friend. “Robert and Elizabeth, who could ever forget them? Wasn’t that just the most romantic thing you ever heard of, Mandy, the way they fell in love just by writing letters to each other and then he went sweeping into her house, gathered her into his arms and carried her away, right under the nose of her awful old father?”
Beverly sighed, lost in the pleasure of the story.
Amanda grinned fondly. “Beverly Townsend, you’re an incurable romantic, you know that? As a matter of fact,” she added more seriously, “I was interested in one of Browning’s poems, not his personal life. I wondered if you might recall it, Bev. It’s called ‘Andrea del Sarto.’”
Beverly frowned, searching her memory while she munched thoughtfully on the mint. Despite her flippant manner, Beverly had a quick mind and an impressive memory. Amanda was confident she would be able to recall at least something of the poem in question.
“I’ve got it,” Beverly announced finally. “Actually there’s two poems, kind of similar, and I always get them mixed up. The other one’s called ‘My Last Duchess.’ But the Del Sarto one, it’s about an artist, talking to his wife.”
“And it ends with the line, ‘Again the Cousin’s whistle. Go, my Love.’ Right?”
“Right,” Beverly agreed. “I always thought that was just about the saddest line in the English language. Tore my heart out, every time I read it.”
Amanda felt a brief chill that touched her body with icy fingers, almost making her shiver. “Why?” she asked, keeping her voice light. “You know, I don’t really recall the poem at all, except for the title and that one line.”
“Well, it’s this artist talking to his wife,” Beverly began cozily, resting against the door and turning to look at her friend, her blue eyes alight with interest. “She’s a whole lot younger than he is, you see, and she’s really beautiful and shallow. Completely selfish. He only married her because he was obsessed by her looks, and both of them know it. And in the poem, he’s begging her to just sit with him for a while and watch the sunset, but she can’t wait to be off with her friends or a boyfriend or whatever.”
“Doesn’t she love him?”
“Not a bit. She’s probably not even capable of love. That’s what he’s saying in the poem, ever so gently. He’s not really complaining about her, just saying how different their lives could have been, what a great painter he could have been and how much happiness they could have had if only she’d had enough depth to care for him a little and give him even the tiniest bit of support.”
“But she’s just too shallow and superficial,” Amanda said grimly. “Too interested in herself and her own looks and nothing else.”
“Absolutely,” Beverly agreed, missing the sudden edge in her friend’s voice. “Mostly, she’s just wishing the boring old guy will quit talking so she can take off and do what she wants.”
Amanda nodded thoughtfully.
“And the last line,” Beverly went on, “is because she’s itching to get away from him, you know, and be off about her own entertainment, leaving him sitting all alone in the sunset. Just to keep the peace, they’re pretending she’s going out with her cousin, but both of them know it’s not true. So he talks a little more about how he feels, all that he’s given up for her and how he feels it’s been worth it, just to have the privilege of looking on her beauty sometimes, even though most of his life is terribly sad and lonely. And then, finally, he sees that she’s anxious to be gone so he just says that line, ever so gently, the one about her cousin, and lets her go.”
Amanda shivered again. Was that the opinion Brock had formed of her after just a few minutes’ conversation? Did he really see her as a woman who was all show and no substance? A woman so shallow and self-absorbed that she would give a man a life of lonely pain and emptiness?
Her hands tightened on the wheel and she negotiated a corner a little too fast, slamming on the brakes and sending a sheet of water slashing past the roof of the car. She righted the vehicle just in time to merge unsteadily back into the flow of traffic.
“Wow!” Beverly commented admiringly. “Not bad, Mandy. Since when did you get so reckless?”
Amanda ignored the question, still absorbing the subtle insult of Brock Munroe’s final words to her.
“Bev, what do you know about Brock Munroe?” she asked abruptly. “The tall dark-haired man who was Vernon’s best man at the wedding?”
Beverly chuckled. “You don’t have to describe Brock to me, Mandy. I’ve known him all my life. In fact,” she added cheerfully, “when I was about six and he was sixteen, he rescued me from drowning when we were at a community swimming party down at the river. Actually jumped into a whirlpool, dragged me out coughing and spitting like a drowned rat. Afterward, my parents found out he couldn’t swim a stroke himself, he just sort of acted on instinct. I had a terrible crush on him for about five years after that.”
“But what’s he like, Bev? What kind of family does he have?”
“Poor Brock, he doesn’t have a family. Never did, not to speak of. His mama died when he was just young, and his daddy was such a bad apple that Brock did most of the parenting. When he was just a teenager he worked like a man, ran the whole ranch, they say, while his daddy was off drinking and playing cards.”
Amanda thought again of the clear steady dark eyes, the quiet uncompromising look of the man.
“So,” she began slowly, “he has no formal education at all?”
“No,” Beverly said cheerfully. “A high school diploma, I guess, and that’s about it. Poor Brock, he’s always just been a hardworking rancher, as long as I can remember.”
“Is he married?”
Beverly shook her head. “Never has been. Women chase after him all the time, and he sure doesn’t mind their company, but Brock Munroe just doesn’t seem to be the marryin’ kind, if you know what I mean. As far as I can recall, he’s never even gotten really serious about anyone.”
“But when he does get serious about someone, what will she be like, do you think?”
Beverly shrugged. “Who knows? Likely she’ll be some nice wholesome ranch girl who can brand a steer and string a fence line, and raise him up a whole brood of curly-haired little kids.”
Amanda was silent, absorbing this image, wondering at her sudden wistfulness and the new thrust of pain that stabbed at her. It was, in fact, quite similar to the pain she experienced when she thought of Edward with his young model. And yet this pain had a different quality about it, something more subtle and hurtful….
“Why?” Beverly asked, rummaging busily in the glove compartment again. “You know, I thought I had some peanuts in here,” she complained. “I’m sure I…oh, good, her
e they are. Why all the interest in Brock Munroe?” she added casually, opening the plastic container and pouring a mound of salty nuts onto her palm. “Care for some nuts, Mandy?”
Amanda shook her head in disbelief. “Beverly Townsend, I swear I don’t know why you don’t weigh two hundred pounds. I’m not interested in Brock Munroe,” she added just as casually. “We just got involved in kind of a weird conversation, that’s all, and I was really grateful when you rescued me. Guess who else I talked to?” she added brightly, changing her mind and taking several peanuts from Beverly’s outstretched hand.
“Who? I thought you didn’t talk to anybody. I was sure you just stood alone in that damned corner all night long.”
“I talked to Mary Gibson. And guess what, Bev? She wants to look at some clothes!”
“That’s great,” Beverly said, “but I don’t think Mary can afford designer clothes.”
“She can’t,” Amanda said, and launched into her fabrication about the ill client.
For the rest of the trip, missing boyfriends, disturbing poetry, fears and loneliness were all forgotten as the two young women planned the transformation of Mary Gibson.
THEY WERE so beautiful, the ostriches in Mary Gibson’s dream. There were always three of them, two females and a big arrogant male, their huge obsidian eyes wise and gentle, their iridescent feathers glittering like rainbows in the hot desert sun. The birds ran and circled Mary, who sat mesmerized by their lofty grace. Then, gradually, the big male began to drift closer and closer to her, his powerful legs churning slowly, his long neck outstretched in invitation.
In the wondering, slow motion of dreams, he finally knelt and allowed Mary to climb on his back, and then they were off, skimming over the desert sands while she clung to his warm feathers, riding the wind and feeling the sun-warmed sand go flashing past in dizzying cartwheels of light. She was so happy in the dream, free of pain and loneliness, free of everything in the world, ears singing, heart pounding with a wild fierce exultation….
Gradually consciousness replaced the dream. Pain flowed in, the old dull ache that was now so much a part of Mary Gibson’s life. The ostriches faded, pushed aside by memories of the party at the Double C.
Mary moaned and rolled over in bed, pulling the pillow over her head, trying to shut out the images of her neighbors’ pitying faces and tactfully averted glances, of Billie Jo Dumont’s smug grin and lush swaying hips. Worst of all was the memory of Mary herself, actually agreeing to look at clothes with that glamorous television lady…
“God help me, I must be crazy,” Mary whispered aloud into the muffling depths of the pillow. “What on earth could I have been thinking about? What do I need stylish clothes for?”
She rolled over again, and lay staring at the ceiling, thinking about Amanda Walker’s dark classic beauty and her calm sweet air.
Mary admired women who managed to look perfect on all occasions. Mary herself always felt, even when she did dress up, that there was something not quite right, something hanging or bunching or fitted wrong, something smeared or rumpled or clashing with something else.
Of course, she thought, moving restlessly in the wide lonely bed and gazing up at the ceiling, she’d never had much chance to learn how to dress and make herself up. She’d been married at nineteen, and life had been such a struggle in those early years that there was no money for a young ranch wife to think about getting herself rigged up fashionably.
Still, she and Al had been so happy in those days. They spent their time working and building, laughing together in the sunshine, playing with their little girl….
Tears stung in Mary’s eyes and burned hotly against her cheeks. She snatched a tissue from the bedside table and dabbed at her face impatiently, disgusted with herself. “I’ve done enough crying,” she muttered aloud, a habit she’d acquired since the dreadful day when they’d taken Al away. “I’m not going to cry anymore, dammit.”
But it was hard not to cry when she remembered all the pain and confusion. Thirty-five years of marriage, Mary thought bleakly. All those years of planning and building and loving and caring, washed away in a single moment by a car swallowed up in the dust.
She hadn’t been to the jail to visit him, and she didn’t know if she ever wanted to, though she’d gotten a couple of letters from him begging her to come, telling her that they needed to discuss urgent business about the ranch.
“Can you imagine Bubba Gibson sitting in prison?” the neighbors were whispering to one another. “Bubba Gibson, locked away in some little ol’ jail cell, with nothing to look at but four walls?”
And Mary tried sometimes, but she just couldn’t. When she pictured her husband he was always outdoors somewhere, striding across the sun-warmed grass in big booted feet or riding out among his cattle herd, casting a fishing line into the river or standing on a hillside in the sunset with the autumn wind riffling his hair.
He deserves every single thing that’s happened to him, Mary thought defensively. He brought it all on himself, and now he’s paying, just like he should.
At least he recognized that, she reflected morosely. He’d refused J.T.’s offer to bail him out, saying he deserved his punishment and he’d take it like a man. Or so J.T. had told her later. But Martin had insisted on ensuring he’d gotten a speedy trial, with the eligibility of parole for good behaviour, especially in light of the fact he’d testified against that horrible man who actually made it his business to murder innocent animals.
As usual Mary found herself making allowances for Al. She’d never been able to stay angry at him. Back in the early years of their marriage, Al used to tease her about it.
“You know your problem, Mary?” he’d say, half joking, half serious. “Your problem is, you just can’t stay mad long enough. You wanna tame a wild hardlivin’ hombre like me, girl, you gotta be able to stay mad for a week or two, maybe even a whole month, just so I’ll learn to behave.”
But she never could. All the things he did that hurt and disappointed her would cause brief blowups and then be forgotten, like those summer squalls that passed by without ever really obscuring the sunshine.
Until Billie Jo came along, Mary thought grimly. That had been Al’s only major infidelity, at least to her knowledge, and it had been so deeply, painfully humiliating to her, especially when she realized that everybody else knew and pitied her. Sometimes she cried at night, wondering how her husband could do such a thing to her.
“I guess,” she murmured sadly to the small stuffed dog on her dresser, “I just got older. I got to be fifty, and that was too old for him. He wanted somebody younger and prettier, that’s all.”
And he’d certainly gotten what he wanted, Mary thought miserably, remembering Billie Jo Dumont’s luscious figure and shining mane of hair, her sexy pouting mouth. How in the world could any fifty-four-year-old woman expect to compete with all that?
And yet, some deeply buried part of Mary stubbornly refused to accept this. She knew that there was more to a woman than hair and hips, and there was a lot more to marriage than exciting sex.
A woman who gave a man thirty-five years of her life was entitled to something in return, and after all this time Mary was finally beginning to feel a slow-growing outrage at the way she’d been treated.
All the neighbors had thought she was being brave and forgiving, Mary thought with a sad smile, levering her small slender body out of bed and dressing rapidly in jeans, shirt and sneakers.
But in actual fact, courage had had very little to do with it. The truth was, she hadn’t known what else to do. If she had left her unfaithful husband for good, where could she have gone, what could she have done, with no skills or training of any kind? This ranch had been her whole life, as long as she could remember.
And now, because of Al’s terrible foolishness, even the ranch was in danger….
Mary shivered, hugging herself in the cold morning light, her face taut with worry, her hazel eyes bleak.
Finally, drawn by the ir
resistible smell of bacon and fresh coffee, she hurried into the bathroom and then down the hall to the kitchen.
“Mornin’, Mary,” Luke Harte drawled, turning from the stove to smile at her, spatula in hand. “Looks like it’s fixin’ to be a real nice day. Care for an egg this mornin’?”
Mary nodded and poured a mug of coffee for herself from the pot on the counter, grateful for his presence. In the days before Luke came along, mornings had been the worst time of all. She’d grown used to Al being away in the evenings, but she hated getting up alone, planning the day and watching the sun rise without anybody sitting across the table from her.
Luke Harte had drifted in early one morning, just a few days after they took Al away to prison. Mary had answered the door.
“I heard about Bubba,” he’d drawled, “an’ I figgered maybe you could use a little help around the place, Mary.”
“But…but I can’t afford a salary for you, Luke. There’s no—”
“I’m willin’ to work for room an’ board, an’ a little spendin’ money on weekends if you can spare it, Mary. Don’t worry about it. I’d just welcome a place to live, an’ some work to do.”
Mary nursed her warm coffee mug at the table, watching him fry the eggs, remembering her startled gratitude and the appreciation she felt for the work he did without complaint.
Luke Harte was a tall, lean young cowboy, probably in his late twenties or early thirties, Mary calculated, with a handsome craggy face and smooth dark hair and moustache. He looked like a young Clark Gable.
People called Luke a drifter, said he’d been in some kind of trouble back in Wyoming, and that he’d already had run-ins with a couple of the local ranchers. Mary knew that he’d lost a job here and there, though she didn’t pay much attention to the details.
A few of the neighbors, like Brock Munroe and J. T. McKinney, had even tried tactfully to suggest that maybe Mary should let Luke go, hire somebody else or ask the other ranchers to help out if she needed anything.
New Way to Fly Page 5
