She flushed. “I’m aware of that, Gabriel. I love all of them, equally. They’re all my daughter’s children. But I’m here because of the two who aren’t yours.”
“I don’t think of them as not mine.”
“Nevertheless, you know the saying, ‘blood will out.’”
He frowned. “What does that have to do with anything? Being a father is more than sharing a gene pool.” “
I won’t argue with you about that.”
“Why are you here, Lynne?”
She’d pushed him too far. She smiled tentatively. “Do you mind if we have dinner first? I’d like to share a meal with the children without animosity. Can we do that, Gabriel? Please?”
He looked surprised. “Of course. You’re always welcome here, Lynne. I hope you know that.”
“Yes. Thank you. It’s just that since Kristen left—” She left the sentence unfinished.
“It’s awkward. I know. However, you don’t have to visit with them here if it makes you uncomfortable. Make whatever arrangements you want with the children. Take them to lunch or keep them overnight. Whatever you’d like.”
“I appreciate that, Gabriel, because that’s exactly what I had in mind.”
Emma poked her head into the room. “Gran said to tell you dinner is ready.”
Lynne smiled. “Come in, darling, and say hello to me. I didn’t realize you were home.”
Slowly, Emma slunk into the room, still dressed in chains and leather. Gabe closed his eyes briefly.
Lynne looked at her granddaughter, her glance moving slowly over the torn blouse dipping over one shoulder, the tight, low-waisted leather pants that left a significant part of Emma’s midriff bare, and the silver chains hanging from her belt to her knees. Her mouth dropped. “Why are you dressed like that? Are you going to a costume party? What on earth did you do to your hair?”
“I dyed it.”
“But why?”
“Hair grows, Grandma. It’s temporary. I needed a change.”
“Do they let you go to school like that?”
“Yes,” Emma said briefly. “Now, if we’re done talking about my clothes, can we eat? I’m starving.”
Lynne didn’t move. “Do you approve of this attire, Gabriel?” she asked.
From across the room, Emma’s eyes challenged her stepfather.
“I think Emma’s natural hair is more attractive,” he said slowly, “but I remember what it’s like to be a teenager. Hair grows, and as long as she isn’t piercing anything or coming home with tattoos, and as long as it’s acceptable at school, I’m not going to forbid her to dress the way she wants.”
Lynne felt the blood rise in her cheeks. This was worse than she thought. Gabriel either couldn’t or didn’t want to control Emma. “I don’t think—” she began.
Mercedes, resplendent in yet another colorful, flowery shift that hung from her shoulders, appeared in the doorway. “What’s the matter with you people? Dinner’s ready. What does it take to get you to come to the table?” She laughed to show she wasn’t really annoyed.
Lynne closed her mouth, picked up her purse and preceded Gabriel into the dining room.
“Your purse is safe here, Lynne,” Mercedes whispered into her ear. “I can guarantee the help are honest.”
Flushing again, Lynne turned back to the living room to hang the offending bag on the hall tree.
Eric and Claire were already seated when she joined the others in the dining room. Eric stood to kiss his grandmother. “Hi, Grandma,” he said. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, Eric. I’ve missed you.” She looked at Claire and summoned a bright, artificial smile. “Hello, darling. How have you been?”
Claire stared at her and then looked down at her plate.
Mercedes sat at one end of the table. She lifted her glass, once again filled to the top with ice and wine. “Here’s to good health and good company.”
Obediently, the others followed suit.
“What are the children drinking?” asked Lynne. She wouldn’t be surprised if Mercedes had spiked their sodas.
“Milk,” said Eric. “We always drink milk at dinner.”
Mollified, Lynne sipped her drink. She wrinkled her nose. Another one of Mercedes’s sweet concoctions. She would have a raging headache tomorrow morning. The food, however, was delicious: enchiladas and rice, refried beans, salad and a chicken dish, just spicy enough for interest but not so much that it was difficult going down. Even Claire was eating, Claire who didn’t eat more than a mouthful at a meal.
Lynne cleared her throat. She addressed the children. “Do any of you hear from your mother?”
Their stricken glances smote her. She almost wished she hadn’t asked the question.
Mercedes picked up the conversation. “Funny you should mention that. Do you have a computer, Lynne?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Are you familiar with Matchmaker.com?”
Lynne was confused. “No, I don’t think so.”
“It’s an Internet dating service.”
“Really?” Where was the woman going with this?
“Yes. I’ve sent in Gabriel’s profile. I think it’s time he started dating. What do you think?”
Lynne stiffened. “I don’t think it’s any of my business.”
“You must have an opinion.” Mercedes served herself an enormous helping of beans and salsa. “My thinking is this,” she continued conversationally. “There’s no reason for Gabriel to be alone for the rest of his life. He’s still young, he’s handsome and, most of all, he’s a good man. What do you think, Lynne?” She looked at the woman’s plate. “Have more beans. They’re good for you, unless you’re flatulent. Are you flatulent, Lynne? So many of us are at our age.”
Lynne’s hands shook. “Certainly not. And I think Gabriel should do whatever he feels is best.”
“I’m so glad you agree.” Mercedes beamed. “See, Gabriel, even Lynne wants you to find someone else, resume your life and provide a mother for these children.”
Gabriel glanced at his children. Eric looked stricken, Emma mutinous and Claire oblivious. His jaw tightened. “That’s enough, Ma,” he said. “I have everything I need right here.”
“Now that you mention it,” said Lynne, “I was wondering if Eric and Emma wanted to stay with me for a while. After all, I am their blood relative and it can’t be easy raising two additional children who aren’t yours.”
The children, except for Claire, stared at her open- mouthed.
“I’ve been raising them for eleven years,” Gabe reminded her.
“Circumstances have changed. Kristen is gone.”
Gabriel’s eyes slanted to slits of brilliant blue. “Thank you, but I’m declining your offer.”
Lynne set down her fork, lifted her napkin, dabbed the corners of her mouth and readied herself to do battle. “Maybe it would be best for the children.”
“How would it be best,” he said evenly, “for two teenage children to have a woman in her seventies raise them?”
“Isn’t that what Mercedes is doing now?” countered Lynne. “She’s also running a B and B. At least I don’t have that to contend with.”
Mercedes opened her mouth.
Gabriel lifted his hand and she closed it again.
“I’m raising the children,” he said. “My mother helps out when I need her.”
Lynne refused to retreat. “Why don’t you ask them what they want?”
Gabriel pushed his plate away. “I won’t do that.”
“Why not?”
He stood. “If you’re finished, I’d like to continue this conversation in private in the living room.”
Pushing her chair away from the table, Lynne stalked out of the room.
Mercedes eyed her son. “Don’t lose your temper, Gabriel.”
Gabe looked at his ex-wife’s children. “I’m sorry,” he said calmly, “but there is absolutely no way I am giving you to her.”
“Why not?” Emma asked.
“I love you,” he said simply. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“What if we want to go?”
“Emma!” Eric’s strangled gasp rose up out of his throat
She looked at her brother. “I was just asking. What’s wrong with that?”
“Sometimes you’re so stupid.”
Emma glared at her brother. “Shut up, Eric. In case you haven’t thought about it, maybe we’d hear from Mom more often if she could call Grandma’s house instead of having to reach us here. It’s got to be hard for her.”
“Hard for her!” Eric’s pale skin was nearly purple. “If leaving her husband and kids wasn’t too hard, a few phone calls now and then should be a piece of cake.”
Mercedes pounded on the table with her spoon. “That’s enough. Let your father handle your grandmother and the rest of us will finish eating.”
Emma threw her napkin on her plate and ran out of the room.
Claire continued to eat as if nothing had happened.
Eric’s eyes met Gabe’s. “I’m sixteen. I can decide where I want to live.”
Gabe nodded. “I’m not giving you up without a fight.”
Eric relaxed. A slow smile began at the corners of his mouth. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“I think I can handle your grandmother.”
Eric picked up his fork. “Go for it.”
Lynne sat on the edge of a chair. She wore her jacket and her purse was on her lap. She started in immediately. “I don’t want to have to make this legal, Gabriel, but I will.”
“You can do whatever you please, Lynne, but understand this—I’m not going to allow the children to live with you. Neither will I ask them if they want to live with you.”
“Why on earth not?”
“Because they have already lost their mother. She made a choice and they came in last. In their minds they are already unworthy of their mother’s love. I’m not going to have them believe their father doesn’t want them. I’m going to fight for them. I’ll fight for them with every breath and every dollar I have. Do I make myself clear?”
“Have you considered that the reason Kristen left might be you, not the children?”
“I’m sure you know much more about that than I do, since she left without any explanation at all. However, the fact remains that she left them. That’s the bottom line. That’s how they see it. To give them to you would be washing my hands of them. I won’t do that. If you want to hire a lawyer, so be it. The ball is in your court.”
“I always liked you, Gabriel. I hope you know that. I don’t condone my daughter’s actions.”
He smiled. “I know your heart is in the right place, Lynne. I’m renewing my offer. Whenever and wherever you want to see the children is fine with me. You’re their grandmother. As far as I’m concerned, the more people who love them, the better off they are.”
“You’re a good man, Gabriel,” she said at last. “I don’t know what I’m going to do next. I’m seriously worried about Emma. The choices she’s making could land her in serious trouble. I do believe she’d be better off with me. Your mother—” She stopped.
Gabriel’s jaw tightened. “My mother isn’t your concern, Lynne.”
Their eyes met. “I think I’ll leave now,” she said. “You can say goodbye for me.”
He stood. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
Four
Whitney tapped her foot on the marble floor. The desk clerk of the Hyatt Regency Hotel looked apologetic. “I’m terribly sorry, but the conference room is being used until tomorrow. There is no record of your reservation.”
“I see.” Whitney’s blood pressure rose. She checked her watch. “How long does it take to drive to Moorpark?”
“An hour or so, depending on traffic.”
“I need to rent a car.”
Relief lit the young man’s face. “That won’t be a problem. Would you like to see your room first?”
“No. I’m in a hurry.”
Whitney pulled out her cell phone and punched in the phone number of the Mendoza residence. She waited impatiently for the lengthy greeting to end and then left a brief message detailing the changes of their appointment. Neutral territory would have been the optimal setting in which to present the offer, but under the circumstances it couldn’t be helped. A successful outcome was the only outcome. One small glitch wouldn’t derail her.
Twenty minutes later she clutched the steering wheel of her rented Chevy Impala, the knuckles of her hands clearly defined beneath her skin. Her heart pounded and she kept one foot hovering over the brake pedal, the other resting on the gas. Once again, she reduced her speed as yet another driver in a shiny sports car cut across four lanes of traffic to insinuate himself into the nearly negligible gap between her rented car and a very large utility vehicle.
A big rig obstructed the freeway sign. Whitney was too hemmed in and the traffic moving too slowly for her to go around it. Not that she would even think of attempting a lane change on this terrifying death trap of a freeway. She’d never seen such gridlock or such intrepid, foolhardy drivers who harbored a casual disregard for the relationship between speed, momentum and the time it would take for a two-thousand-pound automobile to come to a complete stop.
She’d been on the road, the 101 North, for nearly ninety minutes and the odometer registered an unbelievable fifteen miles. All around her drivers were drinking coffee, talking into cell phones, applying lipstick or mascara and fiddling with buttons on dashboards. Loud music boomed from speakers. Billboards advertised gentlemen’s clubs, whiskey, home loans and auto insurance rates. Neon signs flashed the world’s lowest prices, the most competent realtors, the best value for a night’s sleep or a hot meal. She was lost in a world of concrete without even a hint of green to mitigate the smell of diesel fumes, the din of angry drivers sounding their horns and the frightening yellow-brown haze hovering at the edge of the horizon.
Whitney wrinkled her nose, trying not to breathe too deeply. She’d seen London, Paris, Brussels and New York, but nothing, nothing, had prepared her for Los Angeles, this parking lot of a freeway and the tense, angry hostility emanating from its trapped commuter population. She couldn’t wait to leave. She would conclude this project, go home and take her mother up on whatever long, slow and peaceful singles’ cruise Pryor wanted to plan for her.
The road sign was completely hidden by the rig in front of her. Taking her life in her hands, she maneuvered into the exit lane, noted the unfamiliar street names, and pulled back behind the truck. Immediately a blinking red light appeared in her rearview mirror. Her stomach churned. A police cruiser was bearing down on her. She looked for a spot to pull over, but there was no shoulder and the next exit was nearly a mile away. A loud amplified voice boomed in her ears.
“Pull over immediately.”
Whitney panicked. Mentally, she weighed the merits of pulling over onto the nonexistent shoulder and risking instant death, or facing the officer’s ire at her lack of response to his command. She pulled over. Heart pounding, she waited while the cruiser parked behind her and the officer approached her passenger window.
“The right lane is the exit lane, miss. The law says you need to be in the merge lane three hundred yards before the exit if you’re not going to turn off.”
Whitney reached for her purse, pulled out her license and handed it to him. “Sorry,” she said.
“Registration?”
“It’s a rental.” She opened the glove compartment and handed him the paperwork.
He glanced at it. “Where are you from?”
“Kentucky.”
“You’re a long way from home.”
She nodded.
“I’ll be right back.”
Whitney popped an antacid into her mouth, leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes, hoping that none of the drivers of the endless river of oncoming cars would be momentarily distracted and sideswipe her vehicle.
After what seemed like an eternity, but was actu
ally only ten minutes on her watch, the officer was once again at her window. He handed back her paperwork and a clipboard with a ticket. She signed it.
He pulled out the yellow copy and grinned. “Welcome to California. By the way, your right rear tire is low on air.”
“Thanks,” replied Whitney, taking her ticket.
“No problem.”
Nearly two hours and several antacids later, the junction leading to Highway 23 loomed ahead. Whitney breathed more easily. Traffic had thinned out and the concrete warren of skyscrapers had turned into beige housing developments, an occasional strip mall and then, as she neared her destination, tilled fields of strawberries, tomatoes, lettuce, corn and, finally, the tiered horse country of Moorpark, nestled between Highway 118 and 23. She followed the signs, noting the different horse properties dotting the hills before turning south on Madera Road and then right on Tierra Rejada. The road was well paved but only two lanes. Finally she saw it, the white sign with black letters indicating the Mendoza Hacienda and Equestrian Center.
Pulling her Impala around to the small parking lot in the back, she turned off the engine and stared at the house in disbelief. She hadn’t expected this. It was unbelievably perfect, so much a part of the landscape, so charming in its genteel disrepair. This was old California, when the Spanish dons ruled from the tip of the Baja to the borders of Canada, a picture-perfect movie set complete with weeping bougainvillea, white stucco walls, a red-tiled roof and long windows that opened onto a circular patio with low chairs and small tables, lush plants and colorful flowers. All this set smack in the middle of what must be at least two acres of gently waving stalks of fragrant lavender. A large woman wearing a flowery yellow dress, a wide-brimmed straw hat, and carrying a basket of blooms, was bent over one of the rows.
Opening the window, Whitney sat for a minute, closed her eyes, breathed deeply and opened them again. The pungent, herbal smell of ripe lavender stung the sensitive membranes of her nose. She didn’t know California was capable of nurturing such foliage. Her image of the golden state, west of the mountains and east of the Pacific Ocean, was an irrigated desert where cars, designer clothing and film contracts vied with movie-star politicians, tract houses and an obscene amount of votes, enough to sway elections.
The Lavender Field Page 4
