The Lavender Field

by Jeanette Baker

  “I kept the right to collect spousal support.”

  What had he ever seen in her? “Go ahead. Try to collect. You might find yourself with fifty percent custody of three children or else having to pay a hefty amount in child support.”

  “And you might find yourself splitting the proceeds of the money from the Austrian government.”

  His breath caught. “May I ask how you know about that?”

  “Emma told me. I picked her up at school.”

  “Did she also tell you that I have no intention of accepting the offer?”

  Kristen crossed her arms and leaned back against the door. “You might have to.”

  “Mom?” Eric’s voice cut through the tension.

  She turned, mustered a smile and held out her arms. “Hi, honey.”

  He didn’t move. “What are you doing here?”

  She lowered her arms. “I had a little break and thought I’d swing by and see you and your sisters.”

  “How long are you staying?”

  “Just tonight.”

  Eric nodded. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine. And you?”

  “Great”

  The silence lengthened.

  Gabe and Kristen spoke at once. “I guess—”

  “I think—” Kristen stopped.

  Gabe continued. “Your mother would like to spend some time with the three of you. Why don’t you grab something to eat together?”

  “What about Whitney?” Eric asked. “She’s expecting us.”

  “I don’t think she’ll mind,” Kristen offered. “After I dropped Emma off, Whitney talked me into coming here.”

  Too late, she realized her mistake. “I would have come, anyway,” she said. Her voice was barely audible.

  Gabriel looked away in disgust.

  “It’s okay, Mom,” Eric said quickly. “I have homework. Maybe you can spend some time with Claire and Emma.”

  Kristen wet her Ups. “Emma has homework, too. I don’t think—”

  A small, silent figure slipped under Kristen’s arm, ran to her father and leaned against him.

  “Hi, honey,” Kristen said softly. “How are you?” Claire looked at her mother and burrowed deeper into Gabe’s side.

  Kristen inched forward. “You’ve grown so much, Claire. I wouldn’t have recognized you.” She held out her arms. “Come on, baby. Give Mama a kiss. I’ve missed you. I brought you a present.” Slowly she reached into her purse, pulled out a folded piece of cloth and shook it open. It was a T-shirt with a logo on the front. “See? It’s from Las Vegas. That’s where I’ve been the last few weeks. Do you like it?”

  Claire stared at her mother.

  Defeated, Kristen’s arm dropped. “I’ll leave it for you.”

  Despite his personal antipathy, Gabe hurt for Kristen. She was still a mother and these were her children. “You and Emma can finish your homework later,” he said to Eric. “I’ll drive Claire home to get her sweater and then the four of you can go out.”

  “Really, Gabe,” Kristen protested. “If they don’t want to come, it’s okay. I understand.”

  “Eric, take your sister to the truck. I’ll be there in a minute.” He waited until the children were out of the barn. “You’re not getting off so easily, Kristen. You can damn well take your kids out for a meal. It’s been six months since you’ve seen them.”

  “When did you get to be such an asshole, Gabriel?”

  “When my wife deserted her family for an adolescent fantasy.”

  “Do you ever think you might have had something to do with it?”

  All the pent-up fury of the last eighteen months exploded and he lashed out at the cause. “I might have, if it was only me you’d left. It’s the kids I ache for, Kristen. I got over you long ago. A man can have more than one wife, but your kids have only one mother. You’re what they’re stuck with. I blame myself every day for giving Claire a mother like you.”

  She gasped and lifted both hands to her cheeks.

  Gabe strode past her out of the barn, well aware he’d crossed a line.

  Pulling open the door of the truck, he nodded at Eric. “Your mother’s waiting for you.”

  “I’d rather drive back with you.”

  He slanted a long, hard look at the boy he couldn’t have loved more if he’d been his own flesh and blood. “I’d like you to do this for me, Eric. I want your mother to be with her children tonight.”

  “Why?”

  He wanted to shout to remind her of what she’s missing, but he knew better. “It’s important to her and to all of you,” he said instead.

  Eric sighed. “Okay, Dad. Whatever you say.”

  They were nearly home when Claire spoke for the first time since seeing her mother. “Are you mad at me, Daddy?”

  “No, sweetheart.”

  “Who are you mad at?”

  “No one.”

  “Why is Mommy here?”

  “She came to see you, Emma and Eric.” He reached over and took his daughter’s hand. “She’s taking you out to dinner. You’ll like that, won’t you?”

  “I guess so.” Claire was quiet for a minute. “Will she bring us back home?”

  Good Lord! He’d never understand what went on in her mind. “Yes,” he said emphatically. “She’ll bring you back right after you eat. This is your home. You’re not leaving it.”

  “Will Eric and Emma come home, too?”

  “Yes. They’ll come home with you.”

  “Will they ever leave?”

  Gabriel looked at his daughter. The reassuring denial was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t bring himself to utter the word. It was a promise he might have to break. Damn Lynne Chamberlain and damn her daughter. He made a mental note to call a family law attorney first thing in the morning.

  The delicious, comforting aroma of cooking meat and onions wafted through the air when he opened the door to the hacienda. Whitney. He’d nearly forgotten Whitney. What would she make of all this? He tugged on a lock of Claire’s hair. “Run upstairs and get a jacket. You can wait for your mom in the kitchen. Tell Emma to be ready in ten minutes.”

  Claire disappeared up the stairs and Gabe walked into the kitchen. A half-empty glass of wine sat on the counter. The table was set for six and Whitney was pulling something from the oven. She glanced at him and smiled. “I hope you like pot roast.”

  “I like it,” he said, “but we’ll be the only ones eating it.”

  She frowned. “Oh?”

  “The kids are going out with their mother.”

  She thought a minute, then smiled sunnily. “Would you mind if I asked the young couple who checked in today if they want to join us? It’s short notice, but they might not have any plans.”

  He stared at her. Just like that she’d adjusted, no complaints, no recriminations, no long-suffering sighs, just acceptance and a sensible, generous suggestion. “I don’t mind at all,” he said. “In fact, I’ll ask them myself.”

  She smiled. “They couldn’t possibly refuse.”

  He almost kissed her. She was so appealing standing there, her nose flushed from oven heat and wine, her makeup rubbed off, her pleased-as-punch smile and her wheat-gold hair pulled back and secured with a wooden skewer she’d probably found in the flatware drawer. But Kristen was due any minute with Eric and he wasn’t sure how Whitney felt about public displays of affection. It occurred to him that he hadn’t done anything spontaneous for a very long time.

  “How do I go about finding a family law attorney?” he asked abruptly.

  She looked surprised. “I suppose you could go online to the American Bar Association. You should be able to get several referrals. I wish I could help, but I’m not licensed in California.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask why?”

  “I know why.”

  “There’s more. Kristen knows about the offer for my horses.”

  Whitney nodded. “She mentioned it when she brought Emma home from school. I told her where to
find you.”

  A muscle jumped along his jaw. “I may be in some trouble here, Whitney. You might think twice before getting involved with me.”

  “Okay,” she said, looking at him steadily. “I’ve thought twice.”

  “And?”

  “I’m still here.”

  This time he did kiss her, a brief, warm, unsatisfying brush of lips against lips. It was over before the back door opened and Eric bounded through the kitchen and up the stairs to wash his hands. Apparently Kristen had decided to wait outside in the car.

  Nineteen

  Pryor Benedict replaced the phone carefully in its cradle, smoothed the nonexistent creases from her gray wool slacks and considered her black, exquisitely crafted, flat-heeled Brazilian leather boots. Deciding they would do, she gathered her purse and coat from the hall closet and set out on her mission. She didn’t look in the mirror. Pryor never looked in the mirror. She didn’t have to. Her morning ritual was enough. She never left her bathroom until she was completely satisfied with her appearance and then she never thought about it again, other than to reapply lipstick after each meal.

  Settling herself in the car, she set the radio to her favorite classical music station, buckled her seat belt, adjusted the mirror and swung by the foaling barn to tell Boone she was leaving for the afternoon.

  At the barn door, she called out the window. “Boone, are you in there?”

  He came out immediately. “Where are you off to, honey?”

  “Lila Rae invited me for tea.”

  Boone kissed her cheek. “Give her my love. You girls have a good time, now.”

  “We will. Don’t forget we have the Lesters coming for dinner at seven.”

  Boone nodded. “Be careful.”

  Pryor nodded and drove off, intent on her errand but not so intent that she didn’t notice what everyone involved in the delicate cycle of the equine industry noticed. As she drove, she scanned the landscape for the odd tuft of toxic fescue or white clover in the pasture, or black fences indicating a farm’s declining profits, or—thankfully absent this year—the dreaded line of trucks bearing dead foals lined up in front of the equine autopsy lab, casualties of the baffling plague that left Lexington’s five hundred breeding farms empty of more than three thousand foals.

  Whitney Downs, like most of the breeding farms here in Kentucky, was a working farm. No fancy chandeliers lit the sheds. No oil or real estate money filtered down for owners to play with. Every penny made was from breeding, boarding and selling horses. Baby- making was what Pryor’s family had always done. It was what they knew. Far more than training or racing, the mating, foaling and auctioning of the season’s offspring consumed a manager’s days and put bread and butter on the table. Without babies, a farm was dead.

  So was a family, reflected Pryor bitterly. Without new blood, the Whitney-Benedicts would fade into oblivion. The future rested on the shoulders of her only daughter. Pryor didn’t blame Whitney entirely for her lack of interest in continuing the family legacy. It was her fault, too. Hers and Boone’s. If only they’d had more children, or if Whitney had been a boy, maybe things would be different. Not that Pryor would have traded Whitney for a boy, but more children would have spread out the responsibility, improved the odds.

  It was with this in mind that she’d called Lila Rae and weaseled an invitation for tea. Lila Rae was her mother’s only sister and something of a recluse now that she was well into her eighties. But age hadn’t dimmed her faculties, and her advice on everything from babies to marriage to the society pages was pure gold. Pryor couldn’t remember a time when the woman had led her astray.

  She hadn’t troubled Lila Rae with family difficulties for a number of years, not since the Wiley Cane incident. It seemed to Pryor that she owed the woman a respite and the assurance that her visits weren’t always predicated by a family crisis.

  Tallulah, her aunt’s housekeeper, who was nearly as old as Lila Rae, answered the door. She took Pryor’s coat and purse and sniffed disapprovingly. “Ol’ miss is waitin’ in the parlor,” she said. “Don’ be keepin’ her too long. She needs her afternoon nap.”

  “How are you, Tallulah?” Pryor asked. She was not put off by the woman’s greeting.

  “If people wouldn’ call up and ask ol’ miss if they could come for tea, I’d be a whole lot better.”

  “Aunt Lila Rae likes company.”

  “She don’ need company after lunch.”

  “I’ll try to remember that,” Pryor said dryly.

  “You do that.”

  “Thank you, Tallulah. I’ll find my own way to the parlor.”

  Lila Rae Whitney sat upright in a straight-backed chair, pearls at her throat, her silver-blue hair immaculately groomed in tight, even waves around her head. She wore hose and a navy St. John knit with white piping around the lapel and collar of the jacket. She didn’t rise, but held out both hands. “How lovely to see you, dear.”

  Pryor kissed both cheeks and settled down across from her aunt in a stuffed wing chair. “Shouldn’t Tallulah be retiring?” she asked.

  “Probably,” Lila Rae admitted. “But it would kill her. What would she do all day?”

  “The same thing you do.”

  Lila Rae laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Pryor sighed and changed the subject. “How are you?”

  “I’m on the wrong side of eighty, Pryor. How do you think I am?”

  “Full of vim and vinegar, as usual. I’m betting you live to be a hundred.”

  The gray eyes widened in pretended shock. “Ladies never bet, dearest.”

  Pryor knew she was pleased. “I have a problem, Aunt Lila Rae. I need your help.”

  “Let’s have our tea first. Tea is so healing. It dissipates unpleasantness.”

  As if on cue, Tallulah walked through the door bearing a tray complete with a teapot, porcelain cups and saucers, a sugar and creamer, lemon slices, spoons and forks with the initials EW delicately engraved on the handles, and two slices of a pale yellow cake studded with poppy seeds.

  Lila Rae smiled. “Thank you, Tallulah.”

  As usual, the woman’s surliness disappeared around her employer. So did her speech patterns. “You’re welcome, Miss Lila.” She switched on the ceiling fan. “Are you comfortable or do you want me to turn on the air conditioner?”

  “We’re fine, aren’t we, Pryor?”

  “Yes, just fine.”

  “You can run along now, Tallulah. Miss Pryor and I want to be private.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  Pryor watched her aunt pour the tea. The blue-veined, paper-thin hands added a slice of lemon to both cups and two cubes of sugar to one. It was a ritual the old woman loved. She never forgot who took what in her tea. Pryor accepted the sugarless cup.

  “How are Boone and Whitney?”

  Pryor understood the routine. Everyone they had in common would be commented upon before the real purpose of her visit was allowed to come up. She didn’t think she could wait for all that. “They’re fine, Auntie,” she said impatiently.

  “That nasty horse business of last year hasn’t resurrected itself, has it?”

  “Not this season.”

  “I surely hope not.”

  “Whitney is in Los Angeles...well, not exactly in Los Angeles,” she amended, “but close by.”

  “That girl certainly does get around.”

  “The firm sent her.”

  “I assumed as much.”

  Pryor cut to the chase. “It’s about Whitney that I’ve come today.”

  “I hope that’s not the only reason, dear.”

  “Of course not,” Pryor said, embarrassed by her gaffe. “You know better than that. When’s the last time I’ve come to you to complain about something?”

  “Now, now, Pryor.” Lila Rae shook her immaculately coiffed head. “There’s no need to be so defensive. You know you’re always welcome, no matter what the reason.”

  “I know that, Auntie.”

  “Now
, then, tell me about Whitney.”

  Pryor leaned forward, determined not to indulge in Tallulah’s lemon cake. She knew from sneaking a peak at the recipe that it contained a full cup of butter and another of heavy cream. The woman had never heard of margarine or Splenda. The fat content alone would be more than Pryor allowed herself in a week. “I told you Whitney was somewhere close to Los Angeles.”

  “You said the firm sent her.”

  “Yes, well, I don’t think she’s there now because of the firm.” In less than five minutes Pryor had informed her aunt of Austria’s offer for Gabriel’s horses, Mercedes’s accident and Whitney’s decision to stay and help out.

  Lila Rae stirred her tea thoughtfully. “You’re not going to like this, Pryor.”

  “Why not?”

  “The child’s in love.”

  Pryor groaned and leaned back in her chair, tea and lemon cake forgotten. “I thought so. I didn’t want to admit it, even to myself, but I knew it had to be that.”

  Lila Rae nodded. “Your instincts always were good.” “But he’s got three children and an ex-wife.” “Whitney’s no spring chicken, dearest. If you want to see her married, you’ll have to make a few compromises.”

  “But he lives in California. I want my grandchildren nearby, not thousands of miles away.”

  Lila Rae hesitated. Her eyes were cast down in apparent contemplation of her tea.

  “What is it, Auntie?” Pryor demanded. “I know you’re not through yet.”

  The lovely gray eyes, so like Whitney’s, focused on Pryor’s face. “You’re not facing facts,” she said bluntly. “Whitney is thirty-six years old. Chances are good that she won’t have children of her own.”

  “Thirty-seven,” Pryor said automatically. “Whitney is thirty-seven.”

  “My point exactly.”

  “Women her age and older have children all the time.” “

  With difficulty,” the woman said. “I may be ancient, but I do keep up on the news.”

  “She could still have them.”

  “Yes, she could, and the sooner she tries, the better her chances are. Obviously this young man is fertile, if he has three children.”

  “Only one is his.”

  “One or three,” Lila Rae said matter-of-factly. “Either way, he’s proved himself.” She leaned forward and took her niece’s hand in her own. “You know that his virility isn’t really the most important question.”