The Lavender Field

by Jeanette Baker

  Emma nodded.

  Kristen stared straight ahead. “What’s she like?”

  “I don’t like her.”

  “Why not?” Kristen pulled the car out into the line of traffic.

  Emma shrugged and looked out the window. “I want to come with you. I don’t like living with Dad and Grandma.”

  “That isn’t possible.”

  Her question was nearly a whisper. “Why not?”

  “Oh, Emma. It isn’t that I don’t want you with me.” How could she make her needs clear to this child without sounding as egocentric as a teenager? Maybe such a thing wasn’t possible. Maybe all that was left was the truth. She swallowed. “I travel all the time. I live in a trailer. You have to go to school. Children need stability.” Her daughter’s silence smote her. “Honey, are you listening to me?”

  “There’s a boy at school who sailed around the world on a boat with his parents. He was gone for two years. If he can do it, why can’t I?”

  “It isn’t the same.”

  “Why not?” Emma wailed. She was crying again.

  Kristen sighed. “His mother and father were there, in the boat, with him. They had time to teach him his lessons and correct his papers. I’m gone all the time, rehearsing or driving or performing.”

  “You don’t have to do that. Why can’t you just come home? Dad can take care of you, like he did before.”

  Kristen shook her head. “It doesn’t work that way. Dad and I are divorced. He doesn’t want to take care of me. I don’t want it, either. I like supporting myself. It makes me feel good about myself.”

  “What about me?” Emma asked. “Does it make you feel good to leave me?”

  Kristen winced, feeling the familiar wave of guilt rise up all over again. Emma hit the nail on the head. In order to spread her wings and leave the stranglehold of her life with Gabriel, Kristen had sacrificed her children. No one had ever said it, not in so many words, but it was there on all their faces, Gabriel’s, Mercedes’s, her mother’s, and now Emma’s. “No,” she said, her voice low. “Leaving you is the price I had to pay. Someday, when you’re older, you’ll understand.”

  “When I have kids, I’m never leaving them,” Emma said fiercely, her hands clenched. “Eric doesn’t want to see you. He hates you, and Claire’s worse than she was before. In case you’re wondering why I don’t like Whitney, it’s because Gran’s trying to marry Dad off to her.”

  For a minute Kristen held on to the words, trying them out, weighing the idea of Gabriel with someone else in her mind. “How does your dad feel about that?” she asked carefully.

  Emma glared at her mother. “She’s gorgeous. How do you think he feels?”

  Kristen refused to rise to the bait. “I’m sure when Dad remarries, he’ll choose someone that loves you, even if she isn’t gorgeous.”

  Emma grunted.

  “We’re not getting back together, Emma,” her mother said slowly. “I know that’s what you want. Dad and I don’t love each other anymore. We don’t want to be together. We just weren’t right.”

  “You were right enough for twelve years.” Emma folded her arms. “You can’t just keep divorcing people, Mom. If you get married again, it’ll be the third time. Isn’t it embarrassing to say you’ve been married so many times? You’re like that old actress, Elizabeth Taylor.”

  Kristen’s mouth twisted. “Hardly that, but point taken.”

  “Are you seeing anybody?”

  “No.” She didn’t add not now. Emma didn’t need to know that.

  “You loved Dad before. I bet, if you tried, you could again.”

  “It doesn’t work that way, Emma. Can’t you see how hard this is for me?”

  “You’re not the only one who’s having a hard time.”

  When had she become so cynical? Kristen wondered.

  Was it all because of the divorce? Were the kids really so unhappy living with Gabe?

  They traveled the rest of the way in silence. She stopped the car at the end of the road, out of sight of the house. “I probably should have called your dad first. He might not like my dropping in like this.”

  “Since when have you cared what he liked?”

  “Since when have you become such a brat?” Kristen returned sharply. Her hand flew to her mouth. She turned stricken eyes to her daughter. “I’m sorry, Emma. You’re hurting. I’m just not used to hearing you talk like that.”

  Emma’s lips tightened mutinously. “Let’s go. No one will be there but Whitney and Claire. You can meet your competition.”

  “I’m more inclined to apologize for your manners,” Kristen said under her breath.

  Emma was right. Whitney Benedict was gorgeous. She was blond and slim and she moved in the loping, long-legged way of a colt in slow motion. No wonder Gabriel was attracted to her. Kristen hadn’t counted on liking her, but it wasn’t possible not to. Her smile was genuine, and her voice, sweet and very southern, would melt snow cones in January. Somehow, Kristen found herself seated beside Emma at the table with a cup of tea and a plate of warm cookies in front of her. A woman after Mercedes’s own heart. She felt like a long-awaited, warmly welcomed guest. That would change when Gabriel arrived.

  “I’d hoped to see Eric and Claire,” she began.

  “They’re with their dad at the dressage center,” Whitney explained.

  “Of course.” Kristen hadn’t been gone that long, but already she’d forgotten routines. “Maybe I’ll meet them there.” She smiled at Emma. “Would you like to come with me, sweetie?”

  “No,” Emma said bluntly. “You can have your family reunion on your own.”

  Kristen’s cheeks burned. “That’s enough, young lady. In case you’ve forgotten, you’re my family, too.”

  “That’s a good one, Mom. Listen to yourself.” She stood. “I’m going upstairs. I have work to do.”

  “I didn’t see your book bag,” said Whitney.

  “I left it at school.”

  “What about your homework?”

  “I have everything I need here.”

  “How are you doing in school, Emma?” her mother asked.

  “Great. I’m doing great, just like always.” Her smile was brittle. “See ya.”

  “Can we go out to dinner?” her mother asked.

  Emma shrugged. “Whatever.”

  Kristen waited until she’d left the room. “Is she always this way?”

  “I think she’s going through a tough time right now.”

  “What about Eric and Claire?”

  “I think the children miss you,” Whitney said gently. “It’s an adjustment to be without their mother.”

  Kristen met her glance squarely. “Do you think I’m awful for what I did?”

  Whitney hesitated.

  “Go ahead. I can take it.”

  “I’m not in a position to judge you. I don’t know you.”

  “You know what I did.”

  “I don’t know how you felt or what your reasons were. I’ve been here a week.”

  “Emma says you’re a lawyer.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re here to buy Gabe’s horses.”

  “I represent the potential buyer.”

  “How much money will Gabe get?”

  Something flickered behind Whitney’s eyes. “I can’t really discuss that with you.”

  Kristen nodded. “Fair enough. What do you think of Mercedes?”

  Whitney laughed. “She’s a character. I like her very much.”

  Kristen stood and rubbed her arms. “That makes one of us. We never did get along.”

  Whitney changed the subject. “Tell me about Claire. I’m not familiar with her type of autism.”

  Kristen closed her eyes in an attempt to compose herself. Her lovely, precious little girl, the child she so wanted to have with Gabriel, had proved, in the end, to be her nemesis, the straw that broke the camel’s back. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms against her chest. “Claire is the
most difficult challenge I’ve ever faced,” she said bluntly. “I wasn’t up to it. I never will be. I’m not the mother a child like Claire should have. I don’t require perfection by any means, but I can’t deal with a handicap of that magnitude. She consumed me. I had nothing left for anyone else. Ironically, she made it possible for me to leave. That’s as honest as I’ve been with anyone. I have no idea why you should be the one to bring that quality out in me. Maybe it’s because Emma told me that Mercedes chose you as my successor. I feel a responsibility to warn you about what you’re getting into.”

  “I’ve been here a week,” Whitney reminded her again.

  “Are you attracted to Gabe?”

  Whitney remained silent.

  “I guess that’s my answer.” Kristen continued. “He is very attractive, a study in opposites—well-read, physically active, masculine but still sensitive. He’s really rather sort of amazing.”

  “If you feel that way, how could you leave him?”

  “It just didn’t work. I already told you. I couldn’t manage Claire and he couldn’t forgive that. Gabe has impossible expectations. I couldn’t live up to them. I was tired of disappointing him and ended up resenting him terribly. Nothing is worth that. I wish you luck with him.”

  “It’s a little early for that.”

  “I should go,” Kristen said. “I never intended to actually see anyone, but I couldn’t help myself. Emma looks awful. Don’t tell her I said that.”

  “Will you see the others?”

  Kristen shook her head. “I don’t think so. There’s nothing for me here.”

  “Listen.” Whitney pitched her voice at its most persuasive. “I really think you should see Eric and Claire. They’re your children. They need to see you, even if it’s just for an hour or two. Take them somewhere. They’ll live on it for a long time. It’s the least you can do.”

  “What difference does it make? Look at Emma. How has she benefited from seeing me?”

  “Just because she’s trying to punish you right now doesn’t mean she isn’t better for having seen you.”

  Kristen sighed. “All right, Whitney. You win. God knows I don’t need another strike against me. I’ll see the kids.”

  The relief on Whitney’s face was obvious.

  Kristen laughed. “They won’t thank you for protecting them, you know, and unless Gabe’s a completely different person, he’ll be furious that you’ve interfered.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  Kristen felt a strong surge of compassion for Whitney Benedict. She was a kind woman. Under different circumstances, they might have been friends.

  Eighteen

  Gabriel finished up the last of his paperwork, swept the pile into a semblance of organized chaos and pulled down the top of the antique desk he’d acquired at an estate sale. It was a splurge, solid mahogany, well out of his price range and completely inappropriate for the dusty office of a horse stable. Yet, he’d never once regretted it. Whenever he wheeled his chair up to the enormous desk and rolled back the pleated top, he felt different somehow, elevated, as if he’d traveled back to another time, another world, where men and women dressed for dinner, ate and drank from cut crystal and fine china, where children were cared for by competent nannies, and heavy bedroom drapes weren’t pulled back to let the sun in until noon. In other words, a world as far away from the dirt and the barns and the dawn-until-midnight legacy his father had bequeathed him without once bothering to ask whether it was what Gabriel wanted.

  The truth was, he hadn’t wanted it, not at first. Gabriel loved language, specifically the English language. The words of the classic poets, usually British, weighed on his mind, rolled off his tongue, flitted through his consciousness at the oddest times. His library of books, all hardcover, were worn, spine-battered, the gilt edges dimmed and dog-eared, favorite passages marked, notes etched in the white spaces of the margins.

  Long ago, while lying on a warm green lawn at the University of Santa Cruz, half dozing in the warmth of a benevolent sun, listening to one of his professors read a passage from Yeats, he’d entertained the notion of teaching English at one of those campuses where ivy crept up the walls of graceful brick buildings that had proudly stood for two hundred years. He closed his eyes and imagined lecturing behind a podium to a hushed classroom, his senses steeped in the scent of old books, the gleam of seasoned wood and the subtle haze of chalk dust swirling around his head.

  It hadn’t happened. Even though Gabriel graduated with a degree in English literature and a minor in mathematics, he’d done nothing with either discipline. He’d spent his junior year and the summer after his graduation in England, but, too soon, his father needed him. He’d intended his return home to be temporary, but one year rolled into the next and, before he knew it, he was married with two stepchildren and a daughter of his own. Gabriel, raised in the tradition of family first, buckled down for the good of everyone except himself. And then a funny thing happened. The trade of his ancestors, the Austrian horsemasters and the Spanish vaqueros, grew on him.

  “Hey, Dad.” Eric leaned against the doorjamb. “I finished spreading fresh hay in the foaling barn. It doesn’t look like anything’ll happen with Tiny Dancer tonight. She’s too mellow.”

  Gabriel nodded. “I agree. Why don’t you collect your sister and we’ll go home.”

  “When is Gran leaving the hospital?”

  “They want to do an angiogram,” Gabriel replied.

  “What’s that?”

  “They send a monitor through the arteries and the chambers of the heart to be sure there isn’t any blockage.”

  Eric blanched. “That doesn’t sound good. Are you going to let them do it?”

  Gabriel raised his eyebrows. “Since when do I have the last word when it comes to Gran?”

  “Do you want them to do it?”

  “I’d rather they wait until she’s up and around. They have other tests that aren’t as invasive. She’s still complaining of serious pain in her ankle. I wonder—”

  “What?”

  Gabriel blinked and looked at his stepson. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I’m hungry. Let’s go home.”

  “You might have to convince Claire. She’s joined at the hip with Lorelei.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of Gabe’s mouth. At first he wasn’t sure about setting Claire up with a spirited Lipizzaner, but she’d wanted it so badly. “Good,” he said.

  Eric’s flashing grin warmed his face. “I’ve got a few things to finish up in the tack room and then I’ll warm up the truck. I’ll meet you outside.”

  Gabe turned out the light, locked up the office and took an indirect route down the dirt path into the third barn where the Lipizzan mares were stabled. One had foaled last week. He stopped in front of her stall. The colt was a beauty, smoke-colored, with the delicate molded head and wide-spaced dark eyes typical of the breed. This one’s fuzzy coat would thicken and his splayed legs straighten when he was a few weeks older. “Hey, fella,” Gabe said softly, “get some sleep. Your mom needs turnout time and you’ll have to keep up with her starting tomorrow.”

  “Hello, Gabriel.”

  The voice came out of nowhere. Bracing himself for the painful wrench in his gut that Kristen never failed to bring, he turned. She was more hollow-eyed than he remembered, her figure backlit by the warm glow of the lamplight. Seconds passed. Nothing happened, nothing more than a twinge. Relief flooded through him. “Hello, Kristen. What brings you here?”

  “My children.”

  “You’re kidding.” The words were out before he could stop them.

  Her mouth twisted. “I guess it’s too much to hope that we can be civil with each other.”

  “Not at all. I can do civility. Eric and Claire are here. I’ll go back to the house and leave you with them. You can drop them off later when you see Emma.”

  “That’s big of you.”

  “What did you expect?”

  She shrugged. “A greeting, maybe.
Something along the lines of How have you been, Kristen. You ’re looking well.”

  Gabriel nodded. “I can do that, too. You’re looking well, Kristen. How have you been?”

  “I miss the kids,” she said. “Other than that, I’m fine.”

  “Good.” He started to walk past her.

  “Wait.” She reached for his arm and changed her mind. The distaste on his face was obvious. “Could we talk for a minute?”

  He shook his head. “The kids are ready to go home. This isn’t the time.”

  “When?”

  His brows knitted together. “What’s the point?”

  “I need money,” she said simply. “I’m not making it.”

  He stared at her. “Why not get a job?”

  She flushed. “I’m not exactly skilled labor, Gabriel.”

  “You’re the one who left.”

  “Does that mean I’m supposed to be destitute?”

  “You know I don’t have money to throw around. You cleaned out half of everything we had when you left. What happened to all that?”

  “It’s expensive to travel.”

  “Don’t they pay you anything?”

  She lost her temper. “Why are you being so brutal? I’m not making enough. If I was, I wouldn’t be telling you this. I’m not a spender, but I have to live.”

  “I’m not sure what you want,” he said evenly. “You have three children whose support you’re not contributing to. Two of them aren’t mine. What about that?”

  She ignored him. “What about the house?”

  He sighed. “Don’t be stupid, Kristen. It belongs to my mother. It always has.”

  “The horses don’t belong to your mother.”

  “She owns a percentage. So do my sisters and I. It was ours before I married you. Separate property stays that way.”

  “Not if it’s co-mingled. The proceeds from this business supported our family for years.”

  “I don’t have money to support two households. You knew that when you left. We’ve already agreed on a property settlement.”