The Lavender Field

by Jeanette Baker

  “We’re here for a funeral, Ms. Benedict. I thought Mrs. Mendoza knew that.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Embarrassed, Whitney vowed in the future to say only what was necessary. She hung up the phone. “I blew that one,” she said to the stoic Claire.

  She looked at her watch. “Maybe you could do your homework down here with me while I work on the computer. Or else, we could check out the refrigerator and see if we need anything at the store. If not, we could visit the horses at the dressage center. What do you think?”

  Was that the merest flicker of an eyelash? Was there something going on behind that expressionless little face? Whitney decided to allow the options she’d offered to percolate while she did a little research of her own.

  She chose a Web site that offered definitions of autism, and began reading. Immediately her interest was piqued. Apparently there were different degrees of the condition, and different approaches to treatment and no true biological test, although heredity played an important role. Whitney glanced at Claire. She had finished her milk. There was no indication she was aware anyone else was in the room.

  Once again Whitney focused on the computer screen. The first description offered up by the autism Web site certainly didn’t fit Claire. She’d never seen the child mouth objects or throw tantrums, but then, she’d only been here a few days shy of a week. Scrolling down to the next section, the words Asberger’s syndrome caught her eye. Now, this was more like it. Children with Asberger’s didn’t function normally in social situations, although they appeared to act and speak normally in familiar surroundings. They were insensitive to the feelings of others, lacking compassion, the article said, focusing on compulsive behaviors. School settings were particularly disastrous, causing regressive, sometimes dangerous behaviors. Whitney had seen Claire pull into herself, refusing to communicate or socialize, but her behavior wasn’t dangerous. She was a little girl, for heaven’s sake. How dangerous could she be?

  The article did say there were degrees of the disease and that some children responded remarkably well to a diet without gluten, dairy products and corn. Whitney winced, recalling the glass of milk Claire had just consumed and the rich carbohydrate bounty Mercedes served her family several times a day. Had Gabriel or his mother ever considered limiting Claire’s diet?

  She glanced at the child’s bowed head. Did she dare try it or was she presuming too much? Maybe if she spoke to Gabriel, he would agree to an experiment. Whitney turned off the computer and stored it away in its bag. Then she opened the pantry door and began examining the shelves. Corn meal, sugar, flour, white and whole wheat, raw beans, rice and baking ingredients were stored on the top shelves. Canned goods and condiments, soups, tomatoes, artichokes, olives and every imaginable oil and vinegar were at eye level. Just below these, a plethora of spices, coffee, tea, dried fruit and nuts had been labeled and arranged in alphabetical order. When it came to food, Mercedes was organized and practical. Whitney was intrigued. Could her true personality be hidden among these shelves? The food wasn’t terribly promising for what she had in mind, but it certainly wasn’t impossible. She would stick to the refrigerator and fresh produce: vegetables, meat, chicken and fish, rice and fruit, healthy food, diet food, certainly not the menu most people would expect at an established bed-and-breakfast.

  She turned to find Claire directly behind her. “I want to see Lorelei,” the child said.

  Slowly, Whitney released her breath. “I think that can be arranged. Run upstairs and change your clothes while I check on the guest rooms. I’ll meet you down here in fifteen minutes.”

  She was both rewarded and puzzled by Claire’s flashing smile. It was almost as if the little girl was blocked, unable to show her emotions at certain times and not others. There was certainly nothing wrong with her reaction now.

  Whitney wandered through the guest rooms. Four were available. The two at the back of the house had adjoining balconies overlooking the patio. The sheets were crisply laundered and crystal vases filled with fresh flowers and stalks of lavender lent a subtle scent to the air. Mercedes must have prepared for her guests early this morning. The rooms shared a bath, but they were also the most private. She had no idea who had reserved the remaining two bedrooms. A thought occurred to her. Maybe Mercedes had counted on having all of her rooms available, even the one Whitney hadn’t vacated.

  She fluffed the pillows, cracked a window and resolved not to worry until the problem actually existed. She had yet to stock the refrigerator with food she knew how to cook, call her office and her mother, in that order, and supervise Claire in the dressage ring. Glancing at her watch, she decided against disturbing Gabriel. He would call with an update when he had a chance.

  After pulling on her own boots, she met Claire, dressed in riding breeches and a helmet, at the foot of the stairs. Their walk through the field to the center wasn’t filled with conversation, but the silence was neither unusual nor uncomfortable. The minute they reached the parking lot, Claire broke away and raced to Lorelei’s stall. Juan was slipping the halter over the mare’s head.

  “You’re just in time, niña,” he said. “She’s already groomed. I’ll saddle her for you. Your papa said you might be here this morning.” He smiled at Whitney. “Gabriel called. How are you managing?”

  “I haven’t done anything yet,” confessed Whitney. “I thought Claire might like a little reward before lunch.”

  Juan nodded. “I’ve seen you in action. If you want to ride, we can find a mount for you. The lower ring is empty.”

  “Thanks, but not today. I’ll take Claire out for about an hour or so.”

  He handed the child the lead rope. “She’s all yours. I’ll get the saddle.”

  Claire beamed. She rubbed the mare’s forehead and leaned against her flank. Then she pulled a carrot from the feed bag hanging on the door and, leaving it flat on the palm of her hand, held it under the animal’s velvety mouth. It disappeared immediately. “I’ll give you another one when we’re through,” she promised.

  Juan returned with the saddle and pad. After he’d tightened the girth, he clasped his hands and offered Claire a leg up. Without hesitation, Claire picked up the reins with her left hand, grabbed the withers and placed her knee in the human grip. She nodded at the groom. “I’m ready.”

  He lifted her to the saddle, waited for her to settle in and then adjusted the stirrup leathers, rechecked the girth and stepped back. “Well done. Don’t overdue it, now. Start slow.”

  “I will.” She grinned at Whitney. “Let’s go.”

  Whitney stepped back. “After you.”

  Permission was all Claire needed. Expertly, she guided the mare out of the barn and down the path to the exercise ring. Whitney followed. She leaned against the fence and watched approvingly. Her own preference had been the hunt seat. She had jumped horses, never attempting the ballet movements of dressage, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t familiar with them. She recognized the straight back and deep-seat requirements of modern dressage. Claire had them down, even to the animal’s self-carriage and well-rounded outline. Gabriel had chosen well for his daughter’s mount. The horse was beautifully trained and the little girl was obviously an able student. Whitney wondered if she would respond to animals other than horses. The Mendozas had no house pets, and yet Claire spent most of her time at home. It was something she would bring up with Gabriel.

  Her cell phone rang, and reluctantly Whitney pulled it from her pocket. This time, Everett Sloane wouldn’t be appeased.

  “What’s going on, Whitney?”

  Somehow, Mercedes’s fall and the plight of her family sounded weaker over the phone than it had in Whitney’s mind when she’d volunteered to stay and help out. “This has been a difficult decision for the Mendozas. The least I can do is stay for a few more days.”

  “It escapes me how the two are related.”

  “It’s difficult to explain over the phone. You’ll have to trust me.”

  The silence on the other end o
f the open line made her nervous. “Everett, are you still there?”

  “You are telling me everything, aren’t you, Whitney?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That’s better. For a while there you didn’t sound like a lawyer.”

  “Give me one more week.”

  “What in the hell am I supposed to tell Kincaid? And what about the conference call?”

  ‘Tell them the sale is in the bag and I’m taking a much deserved vacation. One week can’t make that much difference.”

  “It is in the bag, isn’t it, Whitney?”

  She drew a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Yes,” she said, and punched the off button.

  Before she could talk herself out of it, she called her mother. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” she muttered under her breath.

  Pryor Benedict stared at the phone in disbelief. She couldn’t believe what she’d just heard from her daughter’s mouth. Whitney wasn’t coming home. She wasn’t coming home because the woman she’d been staying with had broken a bone. What on earth was going on? Carefully, Pryor replaced the receiver and fanned her face with her hand. She made a mental note to open the windows in the front room. But not now. First, Boone needed to hear this.

  She let herself out the front door, walking across the grass to the stables. Her husband was deep in conversation with Lewis Markham, the previous owner of Turkish Delight, a three-year-old Thoroughbred Boone had picked up for a song because of the Markhams’ nasty divorce. Normally Pryor would have returned to the house, but not tonight. Tonight, she was not in the mood to wait. She tapped her foot impatiently.

  Boone waved her over. “Hi, hon. I was just telling Lew I’d like to give Turk here another year before racing him.”

  “You do what you think best, Boone.”

  “He’ll be four by then,” the man protested. “You’ll lose millions, and so will I, if he misses out on the Derby.”

  Boone chuckled. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say millions, son. Thousands, possibly, but I’d just as soon not race an untried, California-trained horse. He can’t run in mud and he doesn’t know the tracks. Our turf is different. So are our winters. I mean no offense, but he’s not Kentucky bred. Others will have the advantage. We can’t rush him. He’ll make plenty of money without the Derby.”

  Tight-lipped with anger, Markham turned away.

  Boone looked at his wife. She raised her eyebrows significantly. He shrugged and went after him. Pryor flushed.

  “Listen, Lew,” she heard her husband say. “I know something’s not sitting right with you. Think about it, sleep on it and we’ll talk it over in the morning.” He held out his hand. “Fair enough?”

  Grudgingly, the younger man accepted the olive branch. He nodded at Pryor before walking away.

  “Poor kid,” Boone said, his voice laced with sympathy. “It’s hard giving up control but—.”

  Pryor interrupted him. “Whitney called.”

  Her husband’s face lit up. “What did she have to say?”

  “She’s not coming home.”

  “Why not?”

  “That Mendoza woman broke a bone.”

  Boone frowned. “What’s that got to do with Whitney?”

  “My point exactly. I don’t know what’s gotten into her. I’m beginning to think she’s relocating to California.”

  “Nonsense. Her life is here.”

  “What if it isn’t? What if she’s gotten herself into something she’ll regret?”

  Their eyes met and the name Wiley Cane, unspoken but very much there, rose up between them.

  Boone was the first to regain his good sense. “Whitney’s not a kid anymore, Pryor. She’s a grown woman, a sensible woman. We both want her to be happy. If she’s met someone, he’ll be worthy of her.”

  “What if it’s Gabriel Mendoza?”

  “Then he must be a hell of a guy.”

  Pryor could barely speak. “You can’t mean that. He’s divorced. He lives with his mother and he has custody of three children, two of whom aren’t even his, and the one who is has been diagnosed with autism.”

  Boone attempted to console his wife by wrapping his arm around her shoulders. She shrugged him off.

  “How do you know all this?” he asked.

  “How do you think? Whitney told me.”

  “If she told you all that, she’s not interested in him,” Boone said flatly.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Stop and think a minute, Pryor. Has Whitney ever come clean with us about anyone she’s seeing?” He used the diplomatic us on purpose.

  “Your point, please?”

  This time he took her hand and she did not pull away. “Whitney would rather chug rubbing alcohol than have us give her the third-degree about who she’s dating. She’s been that way ever since she was a kid. She knows we don’t approve easily.”

  Pryor sniffed. “She can hardly blame us, not after Wiley.”

  “Maybe not,” Boone agreed. “Still, it can’t be easy on her having to get her parents’ approval. She’s thirty- seven years old, honey. If she doesn’t know what she wants now, she never will. All we’re doing is making her tighten up like a rat in a chokehold. You know what I think?”

  “No, Boone,” she said. “What do you think?”

  He ignored her tone. “It’s like this. Whitney’s like one of those catfish down there in the creek. They won’t have anything to do with you if you try too hard, no matter what kind of bait you offer up. But if you pretend you aren’t looking, and your line is floating easy in the water, they’ll snap so fast your head’ll spin.”

  Pryor looked steadily at the man she’d been married to for nearly forty years. She could tell him that his analogy was absurd, that Whitney was no more a catfish than she was a polar bear, but there would be no point. Once Boone settled on an idea, it was as hard to part him from it as it was to separate a fly from a honey stick. She’d been foolish to think she would get satisfaction from sharing this new information with him. He was only a man. Men always wanted a quick fix.

  Pryor didn’t want resolution. She wanted to discuss and analyze, inspect her daughter’s every little word, turn every nuance inside and out. Whitney’s phone call had pushed her into irrational behavior, namely searching out the first human in the vicinity. She should have known better than to ask her husband to satisfy the insatiable need she had for examination. What she needed was a woman’s ear, a woman’s voice, the sensible, sane advice of a kindred spirit. She would call Lila Rae. Lila Rae was her godmother and her aunt, and a font of wisdom—if Pryor reached her before she dipped too deeply into the sherry.

  She patted her husband on the shoulder and turned back to the house. “Never mind, honey,” she said over her shoulder. “I’ll go back inside now. Take your time. I haven’t started dinner yet and I still have a phone call to make.”

  Fourteen

  Gabe called just as Whitney lugged the last bag of groceries in from the car.

  “There’s nothing wrong with her leg,” he said. “Nothing more than a sprain, not even a bad one, but they want to keep her overnight, anyway. Her cholesterol and blood pressure are off the charts. Apparently she hasn’t seen a doctor since Pilar was born.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I wish I was. Maybe this fall saved her life.” He sounded more angry than worried. “Her eating habits are out of control and she drinks too much.”

  Whitney didn’t know how to respond. It didn’t seem appropriate to agree with him. She couldn’t very well vilify the woman who’d been so good to her. “Will you be staying with her?” she ventured.

  “I’ll stay until I’ve talked to her doctor, then I’ll buy her a few magazines and make sure she’s comfortable. I should be home for dinner. How’s Claire?”

  “You can ask her yourself.” Whitney handed the phone to Claire. “It’s your dad. He wants to talk to you.”

  “Hi, Daddy,” she said. “I rode Lorelei today. Whitney t
ook me and then we went out to lunch. She was just perfect, Daddy. You should have seen her.” Claire pinched off a cluster of grapes, tucked the phone against her shoulder and disappeared into the living room.

  Whitney wondered if Gabe would make the leap in subject from horse to woman and back to horse again as easily as his daughter had. She began unloading food from the bags. The back door opened and slammed shut.

  Eric appeared at the entrance to the kitchen with Emma close behind. He saw Whitney first. “I thought you were leaving today.”

  “I was, but your grandmother had an accident.”

  He paled. “Is she okay?”

  “Actually, yes. She sprained her ankle, but it’s not serious. The doctor wants to keep her in the hospital overnight for tests. Your dad should be home early this evening.”

  Emma peered over his shoulder. “Why are you still here?”

  “Your grandmother has rented out her rooms. I volunteered to stay and help out until she’s back.”

  “That’s really nice of you,” Eric said, “but we can help. You shouldn’t have to stay because of us or the B and B. Emma and I can handle it.” He looked at his sister. “Right, Emma?”

  Surprisingly, she agreed with him. “Right. It’s not exactly rocket science.”

  “Maybe there’s more to it than you think,” Whitney said gently. “After all, you have school.”

  “If they’re only keeping her overnight, what’s the big deal?” asked Eric.

  “The tests might reveal something more serious. Your dad needs a little time to figure things out. Your grandmother has hurt her leg. She may not be able to get around very well.”

  Emma’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose you’re just the one to help Dad out, aren’t you?”

  Eric flushed. “Knock it off, Emma. She’s just trying to be nice.”

  “Oh, is that what you call it?”

  “Excuse me,” Whitney interrupted. “I have no idea what you’re imagining, Emma, but it sounds ridiculous. Now, if either of you wants to talk to your dad, he’s on the phone with Claire right now. When you’re finished, I could use some help with dinner and the dishes. Two ladies are arriving at six o’clock tonight for a funeral tomorrow. I’d like one of you to explain the routine to me. Will they expect anything tonight other than their rooms or am I off the hook until breakfast?”