The Lavender Field

by Jeanette Baker

  Leaving the swing, she walked around the house to the back patio and sat down in a lounge chair. Tilting her head back, she closed her eyes and concentrated on the source of her unease. She knew it had to do with Claire’s disability. Something wasn’t right. Whitney didn’t have a strong background in neurological disorders, but Gabriel’s daughter didn’t fit the picture of an autistic child. Certainly there were times when she appeared sullen and nonresponsive, but it appeared to Whitney that Claire expressed herself the way any child her age would under the circumstances.

  Deliberately, she pushed her thoughts aside. Claire Mendoza was none of her business. Whitney was here on behalf of her client, and as soon as the Mendoza family came to a decision she would be on her way home.

  The back door opened and Mercedes stepped out on the patio. She sat down beside Whitney.

  “You’re not going to offer me food, are you?” Whitney teased her.

  Mercedes laughed. “Soon, but not quite yet.”

  Whitney breathed a sigh of relief. She wasn’t as uncomfortable as she’d been an hour ago, but she most definitely was not ready for more food. She smiled. “Don’t keep me in suspense. What have y’all decided?”

  Mercedes shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Gabriel doesn’t want to sell and the rest of us do.”

  Whitney was quiet for a minute. “Does that mean it’s a no?”

  “Not necessarily. I’ve talked him into thinking it over.”

  “For how long?”

  “One week.”

  Whitney grimaced. Could she put the Austrian government off for a week? They had already waited years. Maybe another week wouldn’t matter. She would have to work it out. “There is one more thing.” She hesitated.

  “Go on.”

  “I’m curious. Why would someone give up the chance to be independently wealthy? I’d like to be able to give my client a reason, but I’d like to know, too.”

  “It’s his father,” explained Mercedes. “He feels that the horses are all he has left of him.”

  “Is that true?”

  Mercedes stared at the horizon line where green hills met blue sky. “Franz was very special,” she said in a soft voice. “He was also a very private man, not given to conversation. The horses might have been all they had in common. Gabriel was interested in other things, but he was our only son. Franz needed him in the business.”

  Whitney studied the profile of the woman beside her. Her instincts told her she had left a great deal unsaid. Mercedes’s lower lip trembled.

  “I think that Gabriel is fortunate in both his parents,” she said softly.

  Mercedes smiled. “You’re a lovely young lady, and now I’m going to impose upon you. My daughters tell me I do it all the time, and they’re right. So, if it’s too much, you’ll tell me. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Please, stay with us this week. Talk to Gabriel. Explain to him that his world can continue in much the same way without the Lipizzaners, only his money worries will be gone.”

  Whitney didn’t answer right away. Her instincts told her to refuse, that pressuring Gabriel wouldn’t serve her cause, but she didn’t want to offend his mother, who had turned into an ally. On the other hand, she didn’t want to alienate Gabriel. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” she said at last.

  “It’s a wonderful idea.”

  “I don’t think I’m Gabriel’s favorite person, Mercedes. After all, I’m the one rocking his boat. He might see my presence as forcing the issue. It might make him more defensive than he is already.”

  “I’ve already told him you’re staying.”

  Whitney stared at her, eyebrows raised. “How could you say something like that without asking me?”

  Mercedes shrugged and managed to look innocent. “I told you. It’s my way. No one can force you, of course.”

  “You’re shameless.”

  “Then you’ll stay?”

  “You haven’t given me a good reason,” she protested. “I’m afraid I’m going to sabotage the desired result. I’d turn you down in a minute, if only—”

  “If only...?”

  She couldn’t explain it. There was something about this woman, despite her bossiness, and the house and the lavender and the whole Mendoza family. Mentally, she considered the positives. The firm would want her to stay, and she’d never seen California. A week might be too long, but three or four days would work. “I could use a vacation,” she said out loud, “and this place is so wonderfully relaxing. My firm would probably encourage it if they thought I was mixing business with pleasure.”

  Mercedes sighed, content that she’d won. “You’ve made me very happy, mijita.”

  “You always say that word. What does it mean?”

  “It means, my own.”

  Whitney was touched. “You’ve been very welcoming. I appreciate it.” She laughed. “I have a feeling you have an ulterior motive and I think I know what it is. I hope you won’t be too disappointed when it doesn’t work out.”

  The older woman smiled. “I think you were meant to come here. I have a good feeling about you.”

  Whitney certainly hoped so. Her client was being billed at three hundred dollars an hour for her professional services. She looked at her watch. As of right now, she would turn off the clock, place a call to her firm and then one to her mother.

  Moving inside, she sat in front of the long windows that faced the lavender field and waited for Everett Sloane to pick up his phone. Normally, anticipating a conversation with the senior partner made her nervous. Today, for some reason, it didn’t. Where had she heard that the color purple was soothing?

  “Whitney?” Everett’s clipped voice came through the receiver.

  “Hello, Everett.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “There’s been a slight complication. I need a week or so to sort it out.”

  “Can you be specific?”

  “Apparently this is a family operation. Gabriel is only one of the players.”

  “How did that get past you?”

  “Technically and legally, Gabriel has power of attorney,” she explained. “Ethically, he’s accountable to his mother and sisters. The good news is, I think they want him to sell. He’s the one dragging his feet. However, he’s run into a few more complications that have nothing to do with horses. I have a good feeling about this, but I need a week.”

  “I won’t belabor how important this deal is to us, Whitney. We could lose our position as legal counsel for those who count in this state. I know you’ll remember that.”

  “Of course,” she said coolly. “I won’t let you down.”

  “Good. Keep me updated.”

  She heard the click and sighed. Everett Sloane was a friend as well as a colleague. Normally his tone didn’t irritate her. Today, it had.

  Whitney sat with the phone in her lap for a long time. The scene in front of her was so serene, so perfect in its symmetry of purple stalks and gold hills. Her mind drifted. Her eyes began to close. A nap would be welcome. Immediately the thought snapped her out of her reverie. Whitney never napped. She considered it a serious character flaw as well as a flagrant waste of time to sleep during the day.

  Picking up her phone again, she dialed her parents’ number. This call would be much more difficult than her previous one.

  Nine

  Lexington, Kentucky

  Pryor Benedict set the phone back in its cradle. A perplexed frown marred the smoothness of her forehead. She leaned back into the couch cushions of her sitting room and stared, unseeing, out the long windows, their view blurred by filmy, sheer curtains.

  Twenty minutes later her husband, hoping to talk her into a late lunch, found her in exactly the same position. “Hi, hon,” he said from the doorway.

  She didn’t respond.

  He walked in and tentatively sat down beside her. Pryor’s sitting room was sacrosanct. She liked her privacy and those who knew her
well understood that this room was where she found it. Her stillness and the look on her face convinced him to broach the sanctuary. “Pryor? Are you all right?”

  She blinked and looked at him. “Hello, dear.”

  “Has something gone wrong?”

  “Whitney’s not coming home.”

  Boone frowned. “Forever?”

  “No. A week.”

  He relaxed. “That’s all right, then.”

  “Do you know anyone named Gabriel Mendoza?” Boone stroked his chin. “Sounds familiar.”

  “He owns a dressage center in California and he breeds Lipizzaners.”

  “Not too many people breed Lipizzaners.”

  “These are special Lipizzaners. The Austrian government wants them. Whitney is trying to work out a deal.”

  Boone’s face lit up. “Now I remember. The name is wrong. It’s Kohnle, Franz Kohnle. He’s an Austrian who brought Lipizzaners into the United States at the end of the war. Rumor has it he was trying to keep them away from the Russians.”

  Pryor nodded her head. “I don’t blame him. But are you sure it’s the same one? Whitney said his name was Gabriel Mendoza.”

  “Franz Kohnle would be over eighty years old by now. Maybe he sold out, or maybe a relative is running the place.” He glanced at his wife. “I’m surprised you didn’t ask Whitney for specifics.”

  Pryor sighed. “Whitney isn’t the same. There’s a wall between us. I try to break through, but she won’t have it. She doesn’t go out of her way to avoid me, exactly. It’s just that we don’t have real conversations anymore. She’s so unfailingly polite. We barely go deeper than the weather.”

  “You’re pressuring her because she’s not married,” he said bluntly. “She’s sensitive about that.”

  Pryor nodded. “I know. But I worry about what will happen to her when we’re gone.” Her eyes filled. “Who will she have?”

  “For Pete’s sake, Pryor. We’re not in our dotage. I’d say we have a few good years left. The last thing we want is another disaster like Wiley Cane.”

  “That’s not the point. She’s gun-shy, Boone. You know perfectly well that all men aren’t like Wiley. Our daughter is an only child and she doesn’t have a husband or children. Who will she spend holidays with? She’s nearly past the age when she can start fresh with someone. Everyone she meets will already have been married with children to support.”

  “Is that so terrible?”

  Pryor shrugged. Her face crumpled. “I guess not. I wanted more for her, that’s all.”

  Boone wrapped an arm around his wife’s slight shoulders and squeezed gently. “Whitney’s a smart girl. She’ll land on her feet. You’ll see.”

  Pryor shrugged off his arm and stood. It was Boone who didn’t see. For as long as she could remember, she’d had a vision of how a family was supposed to be. At first, it seemed as if it would happen effortlessly. Whitney was born a year after they were married. There was no reason to assume that more children wouldn’t follow. But it hadn’t turned out that way. Boone was.. .easily distracted. It wasn’t until Whitney’s tenth birthday that Pryor realized with certainty that there would be no more children. Still, she had hopes for the family she’d dreamed of: Whitney’s husband and Boone talking intelligently of matters that men talked about; towheaded children with milk mustaches gathered around the Christmas tree opening gifts while she and Whitney looked on, talking and snapping photos.

  Embarrassed by her lapse into self-pity, she smiled brightly. “How about some lunch? You’re probably starving.”

  The look of relief on her husband’s face was comical. Boone didn’t like to delve too deeply. Strong emotion unsettled him, which was exactly why, in Pryor’s opinion, he needed a good dose of it on occasion. Boone had been her husband for thirty-eight years. She’d alternated between loving and hating him for twenty- eight of them. It was only during the past ten that she’d truly accepted him for who he was and settled into a comfortable fondness that in some strange way brought out the best in both of them. They had weathered the storms and were heading into their golden years with the deep affection into which all long relationships eventually evolve. There had been a time when she didn’t like Boone at all. Thankfully, that had passed. Now, even though he had his flaws, he was her best friend.

  “I’d like some of that fried chicken and gravy we had the night before last,” he suggested.

  Pryor shuddered. “Not a chance. Your cholesterol is over three hundred and you’re growing a belly even with all the exercise you get. I’m not having you die off on me before we can retire. It’s salad and fat-free cottage cheese for you.”

  Boone groaned.

  She laughed. “C’mon, Boone. I’ll have the same lunch you do, just so you don’t feel bad. Now, is that love or what?”

  “I don’t know about that,” he sulked. “You like that stuff. That’s probably what you were planning to eat, anyway.”

  “You could take a lesson or two from me when it comes to your diet. Don’t you want to live to see your grandchildren?”

  “Now, see?” Boone slapped his thigh. “There you go again. No wonder Whitney’s cautious around you.”

  Pryor bit her lip. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize to me. Just watch yourself around Whitney. I’d rather have my daughter come around once in a while than have a passel of grandchildren.”

  “I’ll make an effort,” Pryor promised. “Now, I want you to tell me all you know about this California dressage center and Gabriel Mendoza.”

  Brilliant sunshine flooding through the French doors woke Whitney at six o’clock Pacific standard time. Stretching lazily, she sat up and looked out the long windows at the brush-covered hills, their outlines blurred by low-hanging clouds, the winding roads broken up by plots of pasture and farmland, the silver thread of freeway, the tiny ant-size cars moving in the distance and the gorgeous purple blooms of row after row of maturing lavender.

  The sachets filled with dried seeds that she kept in her underwear drawer at home were pale and artificial next to the real thing. What did Mercedes do with it all? There must be at least two or three acres, all blooming at the same time. Whitney inhaled deeply. This was horse country, but not in a way that was at all familiar. Suddenly she felt an ache, not deep or serious but definitely there, for the lush, lime-rich bluegrass of home.

  She showered quickly, pulling on riding breeches and boots, and headed downstairs.

  Surprised to see anyone in the kitchen so early, Gabriel looked up from the coffee he was pouring into a mug and grinned at Whitney. “What’s up?”

  “I thought you might want an extra hand today, with the show and all.”

  He liked the way she talked, the soft, sibilant consonants and that funny little all she added to her greetings. “That’s not a bad idea. You got any experience?”

  She found a mug on the shelf and held it out. He poured the coffee, stopping just short of the rim.

  “I can cool and rub down horses, and I’ve been known to do some braiding of manes and tails in my life. You might even trust me to exercise a few of the regulars and free up your grooms for the contestants.”

  “I’m sure of it.” He didn’t want to think about her motives. It would ruin the gesture. He would think of her offer as nothing more than an honest desire to be of service. Besides, he liked Whitney Benedict. In the senses-drowned world of the hacienda, presided over by his overpowering mother and its cast of characters—his three needy kids and, occasionally, his sisters—she was a cool drink of water, all legs and pale hair and clear, rain-washed eyes. She reminded him of moonlight, Yeats’s human child.

  Deliberately he stopped the thought. Poetry was an indulgence, a sensitive pursuit in a world where there was no place or time for indulgences except in the brief few minutes he stole between slipping into bed and unconsciousness. He sipped his coffee silently. It wasn’t until he lifted the mug to drain the last of it that he realized she was staring at him, obv
iously waiting for a response. “I’ll put you to work,” he said, “unless you’d rather watch the show. Have you seen one before?”

  She laughed. “I’m from Kentucky. We have horse shows every weekend in every city. I’ve seen quite a few, with the exception of a real Spanish Riding School performance. Those moves aren’t done anywhere in Kentucky. If that’s what’s going on today, I’d love to watch.”

  Gabe shook his head. “Typically, they aren’t done here, either.” He set down his cup and reached for a plate of pastries covered with plastic wrap. He reached under the plastic, pulled out the first one and bit into it. He held the plate out to Whitney. “These are homemade.”

  She chose a flaky, apple-filled circle and tasted it tentatively. The buttery pastry was half gone before she spoke again. “Why do you train your horses in moves that are obsolete?”

  He stared at something over her head, his eyes narrowed and vividly blue. ‘To keep the art alive,” he said slowly. “My father was entrusted with a priceless legacy. I feel that I should keep it going. Does that make sense to you?”

  Whitney nodded. “Perfect sense. I’d feel exactly the same way, but—”

  ”What?”

  “You have a chance to make good on that legacy and cash in on a very large amount of money, as well.”

  He rinsed his cup and left it in the sink. “Why is it so important to you? Your money is earned no matter what I decide.”

  “True,” she admitted. “I didn’t really mean to pry. I guess I’m interested in your motivations.”

  He grinned again, dispelling the tension that rose between them. “Lawyers are interested in facts, Miss Benedict. Maybe you should have taken up writing.”

  She raised her eyebrows and moved toward the sink, where she rinsed her cup and set both hers and Gabriel’s in the dishwasher. “That’s a new one. I’ll have to think about it. Meanwhile, I don’t want to waste your time. Shouldn’t we be leaving?”

  He checked his watch. It was twenty minutes later than he wanted to be. “Let’s go.”

  They walked in silence, cutting across the thin grass flowing like a river in the light wind, Gabe deep in thought while Whitney stopped occasionally to touch and smell the fragrant lavender. The barn roofs glinted silver in the morning sun.