by Laura Crum
At the sight of it, I was suddenly ready to go. I'd had enough of the Bennett Ranch. Resisting Lisa's pleas, I told her I needed to get home. Had to meet my realtor, I added, a palpable lie. The truth was I wanted out of this alarming soap opera. My own life, however grim it was at the moment, seemed wonderfully restful in comparison.
All the way down Lone Oak Road, though, I couldn't keep my mind off Lisa's stalker. This shadowy figure who had killed three horses already was assuming an ever-more-ominous presence. I couldn't tell myself that Lisa was imagining things-not after seeing the dead foal. I knew that in my heart I didn't really believe that colt had died by accident.
When I pulled in my driveway half an hour later, I hadn't come any closer to a solution. I stormed in the house feeling frustrated and half-scared. A note from Denise said she'd shown the place to two more people and the schoolteacher had called back. She'd be in touch, Denise had added.
I played the answering machine tape. Only one message, but it was from Lonny. At the sound of his familiar voice, my heart jumped in my chest.
"Gail, come over this evening. I'll cook you dinner. If I don't hear from you, I'll assume you'll be here." Click. Now what?
I glanced at the clock. It was only three. Well, the first thing was to get cleaned up.
An hour later I'd showered, shaved my legs, blow-dried my hair, and applied the blush and lip gloss that was all the makeup I used. I stood in front of my closet, staring at the rack of clothes, trying to decide what to wear.
Now was the time, I thought a little sadly, for something revealing and sexy, if I had any such thing. I was a solid fourteen years younger than Sara. I ought to make the most of it.
Trouble was, I'd never gone in for glamorous dressing. I'm just not the glamorous type. Something in the very features of my face says casual. On top of which, I told myself, I was damned if I was going to try and lure Lonny back into a relationship. We'd been together almost four years. He knew who I was. If he didn't want to put out for me, it was better to let him go.
Brave words. I still wanted to look good. I studied the row of clothes in my closet, a muted harmony of greens, tans, browns, and blues. Lately I'd developed a liking for these quiet colors-the vivid violets, turquoises, and watermelon pinks I'd chosen for years suddenly seemed garish. I was getting older, maybe.
After a minute I gave up the search. There was nothing in here I hadn't seen before. I pulled on a pair of chino shorts and my favorite silk blouse-a soft sage green. Woven leather flats on my feet, freshwater pearls around my neck, and my rambunctious hair brushed into the closest semblance to soft waves I could manage, and I was done.
Turning my face firmly away from the mirror, I climbed my ladder stairway and looked at the clock. Only four. Pretty early for dinner.
Of course, any time but lately, I would have dropped in on Lonny whenever I felt like it, certain I'd be welcome. But now I was afraid to.
Shit. Damn Sara, anyway. She hovered in the background of my life, a shadowy bogeyman. The all-powerful Wicked Wife of the West. Just like Lisa's stalker, I thought suddenly.
I looked at the clock again. I was tired of feeling frustrated and impotent. I needed to do something positive, make something happen.
Well, there was one thing, I thought. Suddenly resolved, I headed out to the truck. I was going to meet Sara.
THIRTEEN
I knew where Sara lived; I'd seen the address on the checks Lonny sent her. West Cliff Drive, in Santa Cruz. It only took me twenty minutes to get there.
I parked outside the apartment building and looked up at it. A square, ugly block of concrete, the place featured a dramatic view of the bay, with Lighthouse Point in the foreground. It was, no doubt, pricey and probably carried prestige of a sort, but I thought the boring green lawns surrounding the gray-walled terraces and balconies all added up to a depressing total. No imagination and too much proximity to other human beings. Not my choice of a good way to live.
Now that I was here, I was having trouble getting out of the truck. My heart was beating hard, my hands were sweating, and I felt tight all over. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. I had no clue what I would say to Sara, and every bit of ingenuity I possessed seemed to slip away from me with the prospect of a confrontation ahead.
What the hell. I got out of the truck normally, not slow, not fast, as though this was an ordinary visit, as though Sara and I were friends. I locked the truck. Put the keys in my pocket.
Walked toward the complex, looking for number 207. A quick evaluation put it upstairs, on the second story.
I climbed the black metal stairway. The view was something from up here. I could see all the way to Monterey, a low ridge of blue hills on the other side of the bay. Even on this hot afternoon, a cool breeze riffled off the water, smelling gently of seaweed and brine. I was at the door. I knocked.
My heart thudded steadily. What should I say? "Hello," I supposed, but then what? Maybe I could pretend to be a salesman.
For a minute my knock went unanswered and I felt a surge of relief at the idea she wasn't home. Then the door opened a few inches, still on the chain. "Yes?" she said.
So this was Sara. She would be almost fifty, I knew, but she looked much younger. Smooth, shiny light brown hair, free of any tint of gray, just touched her shoulders. She wore white shorts and a pale blue linen blouse, and the shorts revealed slim legs with a good tan. She was a full head shorter than me, probably about five-two, and delicately made, with small bones. The big dark blue eyes with fine brows were carefully and expertly made up. She looked fragile, clean, perfect-like a doll in a china hutch.
I took all this in in a long second of staring through the four-inch crack between the door and the jamb, all my senses on ultra-alert. I was certain I could smell her perfume, light and lemony. I still hadn't said a word.
Recognition dawned slowly on her face. For whatever reason, however it had come about, she knew who I was. Maybe she had seen me with Lonny. She spoke slowly. "You're Gail, aren't you?"
I nodded mutely.
"Lonny's girlfriend." Her tone had gone from confused to unfriendly.
I still didn't know what to say. I felt like some dumb, begging animal, here at her door, expecting something, I wasn't sure what. She wasn't going to pat me on the head and say I was welcome to her husband.
"I wanted to meet you," I got out.
She didn't take the chain off the door, just continued regarding me through the crack. She looked annoyed, doubtful, and a little nervous, all at once. Suddenly, I didn't blame her. She probably thought I was here to shoot her.
I stretched my hands out at my sides, so she could see they were empty. "Really. I just wanted to meet you. That's all."
"Lonny's my husband," she said at last. "I want you to leave him alone."
"You left him," I protested. "Years ago. You only want him back because your boyfriend left you." Now I sounded spiteful.
It made her mad. "Get out of here," she said harshly. "You've got no business coming between a man and his wife. I'm calling the police if you don't leave right now." And she slammed the door. I could hear the dead bolt shooting home.
For a second I stared at the shiny gray-painted surface. Damn. That was Sara. The woman Lonny had been married to. Was still married to. I couldn't quite take it in. She looked so different from what I'd expected, though I wasn't really sure what my expectations had added up to. Someone older-looking, less put-together and poised.
Still, I found her distinctly unappealing. Not just because she was Lonny's wife, I told myself. She was too clean, too precise, every hair in place. I supposed the shrinks called it anal retentive. Whatever it was, it was a demeanor I'd run into before, and it was never associated with an easygoing personality. With a slight sense of shock, I realized that Sara reminded me of Joyce Bennett.
Well, Lonny and Glen had a certain number of similarities. They were near the same age, though Lonny was a good five years younger than Glen, I reassured myself. But
still, it made me feel odd. The man who had chosen this woman had later chosen me. I hoped I didn't have too much in common with Sara and Joyce.
Belatedly I realized I'd better get the hell out of here if I didn't want Lonny's wife calling the cops on me. I started down the steps, my heart growing lighter with every stride. It had worked, I thought. I was no longer so afraid of Sara.
She was just another human being, with unexpected faults and strengths; she wasn't some omnipotent, mythical, all-powerful wife figure. I could see her as a person, recognize that to her I was her husband's slutty younger girlfriend. I almost laughed out loud at the thought of her wondering to herself what he saw in me.
Climbing back in my truck, I drove off, relieved, for the moment, of the heavy weight I'd been carrying for months now. I could practically find it in me to feel sorry for Sara.
Almost but not quite. As I pointed the truck toward Lonny's, I took rapid stock of the situation. Despite the relief I felt, the question remained the same. Sara had made it clear what she wanted. Was Lonny going to let her move back in with him or not?
At the thought, my high spirits died a sudden death. I made the rest of the trip out to Lonny's in somber contemplation of my options. That is, if I had any. Maybe Lonny and Sara had come to an agreement last night.
When I turned in Lonny's driveway, I parked my truck at the barn, rather than driving up the hill to the house. I need to visit my horses, I told myself. But I was aware that I was reluctant to face Lonny.
Gunner and Plumber lifted their heads and nickered at me as I walked toward their pen. It was obvious Lonny had just fed them dinner; everybody was eating. Burt and Pistol nickered softly, too, and I stopped to look at Pistol. He was putting some weight on his right front leg, at least.
I leaned on the fence for a while, rubbing my two geldings on their foreheads, watching them eat. Putting off the inevitable. Gunner stretched his nose out to my face, and I blew into his nostrils, greeting him the way horses greet each other. Plumber was shyer; I stroked his cocoa-colored shoulder, telling him what a good horse he was and that I'd be riding him soon. Eventually, though, I gave each of them a final pat and turned away.
No point in standing here until they entirely ruined my silk blouse. I had to face the music sometime. Might as well be now.
I pulled up to Lonny's house in a regular froth of anxiety; I felt almost as nervous as when I'd gone to Sara's. This is stupid, I told myself firmly. After four years, almost, you shouldn't have to feel like this.
But I did. I was afraid. Afraid Lonny was going back to Sara. Afraid we were over. Afraid that this house, once so familiar, was open to me no longer.
The house looked as welcoming as ever on this warm spring evening. It was a round house, a decagon, surrounded by oak trees, with a cupola on top. Off to one side was a bricked-in kitchen garden, and on the other side tall windows were open to the breezes that drifted through the oak grove. I walked slowly to the front door, which was standing ajar.
Lonny was in the kitchen, pouring some kind of marinade over what looked like chicken. My favorite sauvignon blanc was in a bottle of ice on the counter next to him. He continued fussing with the meat, unaware of my presence.
He's getting deaf, I thought vaguely. He was fifty. No longer young. What do you want with an old man? I asked myself.
Lonny looked up, saw me, and smiled. Instantly his somewhat homely face was transformed, the vitality of his enthusiasm and warmth making him appear much younger.
"Hi," I said.
"Hello, love," he said. "Care for a glass of wine?"
"I guess so." I took the glass he offered me and sat down at the kitchen table. The top half of the Dutch door that led out into the little garden was open, and I could see onto the brick patio, with salmon-colored climbing roses draping the low walls, rows of neat young vegetable plants in a plot off to the side.
It was one of the things I liked about Lonny-the way he tended this house and garden. Everything, from the color of the mounded lavender-blue cranesbill geraniums that clustered at the feet of the roses to the finish on the terra-cotta tile floor in the living room, was carefully and lovingly detailed. Lonny took good care of what he valued, and he valued this property-a big reason, I knew, that a divorce would be terribly hard for him.
"How was your dinner with Sara?" I asked, wanting to get it over with.
"Tense. She wants me to go to counseling with her. Wants to try and save our marriage." Lonny's voice was very steady and even-deliberately so, I guessed.
"What did you tell her?"
"I said I'd think about it."
"What are you going to do?"
"I don't know. Think about it, I guess." Lonny poured himself a glass of wine and sat down next to me.
"What about us?" I asked him.
"Gail, I think that's up to you." He hesitated. "Would you marry me?"
I almost dropped my glass of wine. "Marry you? What are you talking about? You're married. I can't marry you."
"If I were to get divorced," Lonny said quietly, "would you marry me?"
"Are you proposing?"
"Sort of."
I laughed. "Let me get this straight. You're trying to find out if I'll marry you, if you get divorced. Sort of a bird-in-the-hand-is-worth-two-in-the-bush approach. You don't want to be left in the lurch."
"More or less."
I took a swallow of wine. "I don't think that's the best way to do this, Lonny. I don't want you to marry me because you don't want to be alone."
Lonny stared down at the wine in his glass. "Gail, I'm fifty. I'm too old to want to start over from scratch. If I divorce Sara, I'll end up selling almost everything I own. This place will go for sure. I know you're in the process of selling your house. I thought if we got married we could buy a place together, have a life, if you see what I mean. "
I saw. It did have some appeal. Before I could speak, Lonny went on, "I've been thinking that I'd like to move up to the Sierra foothills, maybe around Mariposa. Land's a lot cheaper up there. We could afford to buy a ranch, not just a few acres."
I looked at him in disbelief. "You want me to marry you, quit my job, and leave my hometown, all at once? That's a lot to ask."
"Not really. Lots of women did it in the old days."
"Well, it's not the old days."
Despite the fact that I was touched and reassured by Lonny's offer, I wasn't entirely pleased. I could not picture throwing away the independent life I'd built so carefully. Not for anybody.
Striving to turn the subject, I said, "I think you need to make up your mind about getting the divorce, first."
Lonny sighed. "I suppose you're right." He got up and carried the marinated chicken out on the patio, where a curl of smoke rose from the coals in the barbecue pit. I followed him and sat down at the table by the flower bed. Bees buzzed on a clump of geraniums; a hummingbird swooped down to sip from a blue spike of larkspur.
"How do you feel about Sara?" I asked after a while.
"Mixed up." Lonny was watching the meat sputter. "Sorry for her some, like I'm partly to blame for the state she's in; pissed off at her a little, for being so difficult."
"Do you want to be with her again?"
Lonny looked at me in surprise. "Hell no. I want to be with you. I just don't want to deal with all this strife and financial havoc."
I couldn't really blame him. "If you did get the divorce," I said carefully, "is there any reason we couldn't go back to the way we were?"
"You mean living separately but being a couple?"
"Yeah. What's wrong with being independent and monogamous?"
"Nothing, I guess. Except I think I'd like to live with you."
I reached for his free hand and held it. "Lonny, I can be a pain. You know that. I'm prickly as hell a lot of the time. I need my space."
Lonny squeezed my hand and let it go. He started taking the meat off the grill.
"I was afraid you'd say that," he said quietly. "Come on. Let's have
dinner."
We ate salad and chicken and garlic bread, washed down by the excellent white wine. Lonny's two cats, Sam and Gandalf, sat on the table and watched every bite that moved from the plate to our mouths. I did not allow Bonner to do this at my house. But this was Lonny's house and these were his cats. I was used to them begging. One more reason, I thought idly, to have my own place. It was a lot easier to be tolerant.
When dinner was over, Lonny made coffee and we sat down on the Navajo-patterned couch in his living room. Mostly to keep the conversation away from "us," I told him about the problems at the Bennett Ranch. Lonny had known Glen for many years. Maybe he could provide an insight.
"So who might hate Glen Bennett enough to stalk him like that?" I asked.
"I wouldn't know, if it wasn't his wife."
"Joyce? You think Joyce hates Glen?"
Lonny shook his head. "That Joyce is a first-class bitch."
"I don't much like Joyce either, but why do you say that?"
Lonny twitched one shoulder. "Glen's first wife, those kids' mother, was a real nice woman. Marie, her name was. When she died, it tore Glen up something terrible. He was in a daze for months. Joyce got her hooks into him then. She was as sweet as sugar to him. It was 'Oh, Glen' this, and 'Oh, Glen' that. She wanted his money, or so we all thought. He couldn't see it. He was trying to raise those two tiny kids by himself, and I think he was as miserable as a man ever gets. To make a long story short, he married her within a year."
"I take it you didn't approve."
"Gail, Joyce has made Glen's life hell for years. She spends his money like it was water, nags him day and night, and runs around like the dirty whore she is."
