Whitney looked at the girl’s pale, nearly nonexistent eyebrows. “What color is your hair naturally?”
“The same as the woman on the box.”
“I thought so. Why did you dye it in the first place?”
Emma shrugged. “I wanted a change.”
“That was your first mistake,” Whitney said. “You probably had lovely, silky blond hair. Why you would dye it an unnatural black is beyond me. Bleached hair won’t ever look like the real thing, not until it grows back. The texture is all wrong. But you’ll be blond again, if that’s what you want.”
Emma nodded.
Whitney looked around. “Are there plastic gloves around here anywhere?”
Emma pulled two pieces of wrinkled latex from the trash and handed them to Whitney.
She tugged them on. “Tuck the towel into the neckline of your blouse and sit down on the toilet seat while I attempt to remedy the damage.”
Emma sat down. “You’re a lawyer, not a hairdresser. What if you do something wrong?”
“Could it be any worse?”
“How do you know how to do this?”
“The directions are on the box. Close your eyes.”
Emma closed them. “Is your hair natural?”
“Sort of.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I color it to cover the gray. Otherwise, this is as close as I can come to the color I was born with.”
“Yours is the color I want.”
Whitney placed her forefinger over the tip of the bottle and shook it. Then she began massaging the dye into Emma’s bleached hair. “I’ll do my best.”
“You’re really pretty, for someone your age.”
Whitney’s heart warmed to this pathetic little waif. “Thank you, I think.”
“I wish I looked like you.”
“That’s a lovely compliment. If you stop destroying your looks, you’ll probably turn out to be gorgeous.”
“Did you ever do anything that destroyed your looks?”
“No.” Just my soul.
Emma sighed. “I guess you were always perfect”
Whitney relented. “I wasn’t perfect at all. I was stubborn and rebellious and sometimes I had a smart mouth that could have used a bar of soap. Not that my mother would ever have done such a thing. People don’t nowadays. But, I’d say I was a fairly typical child. My parents always said they wished they had three more like me.”
Emma’s eyes opened. “Really?”
“Close your eyes, Emma. If this stuff gets into one of them, you’ll be in trouble.”
Emma closed them again. “Did your parents only have one kid?”
“Yes.”
“How come?”
Whitney applied the last of the dye to Emma’s part. “Sometimes it just works out that way.”
“If you ask me, there are too many people in our family.”
“Really?” Whitney smiled. “Three children doesn’t seem like a huge number.”
“I’m not talking about Eric and Claire and me. I mean all of us, all the Mendozas. A person can get lost in a family like ours.”
“You can open your eyes now.”
Emma’s eyes flickered open. “Am I finished?”
“Not yet. You have to wait twenty minutes or so. Then I’ll rinse you out and we’ll see how it turns out.”
“Thank you,” Emma said suddenly. “You’re really pretty nice.”
“My pleasure, but I think you should wait to see the results before thanking me.”
“At least you tried.”
For a minute, standing here in the bathroom with this blue-eyed girl whose wisps of hair around her forehead and ears were beginning to take on the shade of harvested wheat, the years rolled back, twenty-five or so, and Whitney was in another bathroom with Pryor who was soothing her while she cried over the disaster that was her first and only perm.
“Yes,” Whitney said softly, “I tried.”
Emma’s hair turned out after all. It was by no means the color that would have grown naturally from her head, but, considering what she had to start with, Whitney congratulated herself on a job well done.
Later that day, during dinner, she waited for other reactions. Emma came downstairs and took her place at the table. Her grandmother, distracted by pain, said nothing. Neither did Gabriel or Eric, fresh from the stables. Whitney set her teeth. What was wrong with these people? Didn’t they notice the child at all? No wonder she was dyeing her hair black and wearing ridiculous clothing. She was about to clear her throat and remark on Emma’s improved hair color, when Claire spoke up.
“Your hair is blond again, like Mommy’s.”
Emma tossed her head. “I was sick of it. I wanted a change.”
Mercedes clapped her hand to her mouth. “I thought something was different. It looks beautiful, mijita. Don’t ever change it.”
Gabriel cleared his throat. “You look great, Emma. I’m glad you did it. I’m sorry I didn’t notice. I’ve been preoccupied lately.”
“Whitney helped me.”
“Really?” Gabriel glanced at Whitney.
She laughed. “I happened to be here when she was dyeing it back. Together we averted a major disaster.”
Eric said nothing. He made his way through his meal, sneaking furtive looks at his sister.
“Well?” she said, addressing her brother. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”
He shrugged.
“C’mon, Eric. Do you hate it? Was I better as a brunette?”
“It’s cool, Emma. The blond is better.”
“What’s the matter?” she demanded.
“It’s nothing, except now that it’s blond, and so short—” He hesitated.
“What?”
“You look like Mom.”
Emma looked stricken. Eric looked down at his plate. No one said anything for a full minute. Then Gabriel spoke bracingly. “That’s a compliment, sweetheart. Your mom was a pretty girl. She’s still pretty. Isn’t she coming today to pick you up?”
“It’s tomorrow, Dad,” said Eric.
Over the rim of her water glass, Whitney looked thoughtfully at Gabriel.
It was cold and dark at six o’clock the following morning. Whitney stood beside her rental car, rubbing circulation into her arms. Gabriel, hands thrust into his jacket pockets, stood beside her.
“So,” he said, his breath condensing in the frigid air, “I guess this is it.”
She looked at him. “I guess so.”
“You’re probably wondering what I’m going to do about the horses.”
“The thought has crossed my mind. I need to give my client a definite answer, Gabe. I’ve put it off every time I’ve been directly asked, but I can’t stall them any longer. If you’re really going to refuse, I need to know. It could be a real problem for my firm.”
“I’m sorry I’m taking so long. It can’t be easy for you.”
“Or you,” she added, thinking of his custody suit. “Can we decide on a deadline?”
“Give me two days.”
“All right.”
“How will I know if it’s me you want, or all that money?”
She was looking directly at him, and saw the twinkle in his eyes. “You’ll have to take your chances.”
He tipped her chin up and studied her face. “You’re probably the prettiest lawyer I’ll ever encounter.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.”
His hand dropped to his side. “I want to thank you, Whitney.”
“Your entire family has thanked me profusely. I consider myself well thanked.”
“I certainly owe you a great deal for helping out this week, but that isn’t it.”
“What else could you possibly be grateful for?”
“For telling me how you felt.”
She blushed. “That was a little unusual, wasn’t it?”
“I’m incredibly flattered and more than a little surprised that you think I’m worthy of your re
gard.”
“Gabriel—”
“No. Listen to me. If this never goes any further than right here and now, I want you to know what it means to me to have someone so smart, so decent and so damn beautiful show a romantic interest in me. My confidence was in the dumps. It isn’t anymore. So, if you go home and decide this isn’t what you want, I’ll understand. You’ll still have done me a favor.”
“Are you brushing me off, Gabriel?”
Instead of answering, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. “Not a chance,” he muttered when he could speak again.
“Don’t say another thing,” she whispered, laying her finger against his lips. “I don’t want to remember anything else just now, only this.”
Nodding, he stepped back.
The last thing she saw before she turned the car out on the road was the rangy length of him standing tall in a pool of early sunlight, his arm lifted in a final farewell.
“Please, don’t let this be the end,” she said out loud. “Please let me see him again.”
Twenty-Two
Whitney threw her suitcase into her trunk and breathed in the warm, humid air of her home state. It wasn’t bad, not by southern standards, but the temperate climate of California had spoiled her. She turned on the air conditioner and waited while the engine warmed up. There was no reason to hurry. She didn’t want to go home to her stark town house and empty refrigerator, not just yet. Maybe she would drop in on her parents.
The broken white line of the two-lane highway divided blue-green hills and rolling flatlands. Whitney felt something tight inside herself unfurl as she traveled the road studded with white wooden churches and brick school buildings, faded farmhouses and red barns, children riding bikes, and this year, because the temperature was unseasonably warm for Kentucky, men and women rocking and chatting on wraparound porches.
Miles went by unnoticed as the land rose up and fell away. White-trunked aspen and liquid amber maples sported new growth, heralding the height of the season. As she traveled deeper into horse country, split-railed fences and signs indicated the Thoroughbred farms for which the region was famous.
She found Boone where she always found him, in his office in the barn.
He greeted her warmly. “You’re home. It’s about time.”
“Hi, Daddy,” she said wearily, sinking into the shabby sofa her mother had relegated to Goodwill long ago and Boone had rescued. “I thought you and Mama might like some company.”
“You can bet on that. Does she know you’re home?”
“Not yet. I wanted you all to myself first.”
Boone rubbed his forehead in a futile attempt to erase the frown in the middle. “Is everything all right, sugar?”
“Of course. Why would you ask that?”
“You’ve been gone two weeks. Your mama was worried. I hope your trip was successful.”
“It was all right. I’m not sure you could call it a success, professionally speaking, that is.”
“What about not professionally?”
Whitney sat up. “Spit it out, Daddy.”
“Your mama thinks you’ve got something going With Gabriel Mendoza.”
Whitney blushed. “That’s ridiculous.”
“That’s what I told her. Lila Rae concocted some fool idea of you and your mother going away together for a weekend.”
Whitney stared unseeing at her father. She was thinking of Kristen Mendoza and her unnatural desire to rid herself of her children. “That’s not a bad idea,” she said slowly. “Maybe Mama and I should take a weekend for just the two of us. We could both use a vacation.”
Boone frowned. “Something happened to you out there in California.”
“People change, Daddy,” Whitney said gently. “How long has it been since you and Mama have taken a trip together?”
Boone was silent for a long minute. “To tell you the truth,” he admitted, “I don’t think we’ve been away alone together since before you were born.”
“That’s terrible,” she said flatly.
“I guess it is.”
“Maybe you should plan a real vacation.”
“I can’t leave just like that. What about the horses?”
“The horses will always be here, Daddy. If you keep telling yourself you can’t go because of a horse, you’ll never go.”
“I never have seen Santa Anita,” he admitted. “I’d like that.”
“Racing season has already started. You better hurry.”
“Yes, sir.” Boone rubbed his chin. “I’d really like to see it. Just to walk the place where Seabiscuit won the Santa Anita Handicap would be really something. My daddy worked there for a while. Did you know that?”
Whitney shook her head.
“Oh, yes, he sure did.” Boone leaned back in his chair. He loved relaying a good story. “He told me about that track—‘the best in the West’ he called it—right up there against the San Gabriel Mountains. He was there when it reopened after the war in 1945. Did you happen to visit it when you were there?”
“No. California’s a big state.” She knew she sounded defensive.
“It’s not that big, honey. Arcadia can’t be that far from Ventura, no more than an hour and a half. I checked.”
Whitney sighed. “You’re the one who loves the track, Daddy, not me. It’s always been just the horses for me. Besides, I had other things on my mind.” She rubbed her temples. “I’m sure Mama would be thrilled if you planned a trip with her.”
“I’ll think about it.” Boone grinned, leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms behind his head. “So, sweetheart, tell me, why a spur-of-the-moment visit from my favorite daughter?”
Whitney shrugged. “I missed you.” She looked around her father’s office. “I missed all of this. In California, I found myself in the middle of the whole horse thing again. It’s different, and yet it’s not.”
“Those Lipizzaners are spectacular horses. I’d like to see them.”
Whitney nodded. “They’re beautiful in their own way, not like Thoroughbreds, just different. Dressage is a far cry from racing.” She looked pointedly at her father. “It’s not as cruel.”
Boone nodded. “That’s true. I’m not proud of it. I wish it was different, but money is the bottom line. One slip on a wet track and a beautiful three-year-old is euthanized. It’s not right, but it’s the way it has to be.”
“Why?”
“Because a million-dollar animal isn’t a pet, Whitney. There’s too much at stake. Unless he’s a stallion and a winner, unless his owner can recoup his losses with stud fees, it’s not worth keeping him alive.”
“I hate that,” she said vehemently. “It isn’t right.”
Boone sighed. “I know you hate it, honey. That’s why I didn’t try to convince you to stick it out with me in the business. I saw right away that you didn’t have the stomach for it, and I mean that as a compliment. You’re a softie at heart. That’s why your profession of choice surprised me. I thought maybe you’d go into teaching or pediatric medicine.” He shrugged. “Not that it matters, so long as you’re happy. You are happy, aren’t you, Whitney?”
“Sometimes.” She remembered her first conversation with Mercedes. “No one is happy all the time.”
“I’ll settle for most of the time. Are you happy most of the time?”
“I think so.” She frowned. “It isn’t as though I ask myself that question on a regular basis. I just go on living.”
“That’s no answer, sweetie. If you’re happy, you’d know it.”
“Are you happy, Daddy?”
“You bet.” His wide smile was genuine. “Every day of my life, I wake up believing I’m the luckiest man alive. I’m married to the only woman I’ve ever loved. I live in God’s country. My bills are paid. I have a gorgeous, successful daughter and I get to do the only work I’ve ever wanted. What could be better than that?”
“Nothing, I guess,” Whitney admitted. She’d always known that her father’s expectat
ions, unlike her mother’s, weren’t particularly high. On the hierarchy of personality types, from simple to the most complicated, Boone was very close to the bottom. She loved him, even envied him, for the basic person he was, but didn’t for a minute compare herself, or her mother, to him. Pryor Benedict, despite her protestations otherwise, was a very sophisticated personality. Whitney knew she’d spent a good part of her early marriage in a state of seething frustration over what she perceived as her husband’s lack of depth. Personally, Whitney believed she’d sold her father short. On occasion, when he was interested, he showed exceptional insight. It wasn’t often enough to suit Pryor, but, even so, Whitney believed her mother was happier lately, since she’d reconciled to herself that Boone would always be Boone and if she wanted intellectual stimulation, she would have to find it with her friends.
“I guess I should go in and see Mama,” Whitney said, but she didn’t get up.
Her father looked at her and closed the ledger he was working on. “How about the three of us getting something to eat and you can tell me all about California.”
She laughed. “You’re just feeling sorry for me because I’m at loose ends.”
“Not at all. Your mama and I need to eat. You need to eat. We all like company. I’ll tell you what. Let me change out of these horse-smelling clothes and we’ll go to that barbecue joint your mother refuses to let me see the inside of. I’ll buy.”
“It’s a deal, as long as you order the chicken with a side of beans and a salad. No ribs, no cole slaw and no butter-drenched corn.”
Boone groaned. “You get more and more like Pryor every day.”
“We love you. We want you to be around for a long time.”
Two hours later, Whitney and Pryor sat beside each other in the sitting room at Whitney Downs, drinking tea from cups of paper-thin china. “I missed you,” her mother said.
Whitney smiled. “Me, too.”
“I know you’re an adult, and a very capable one, too, but I was worried about you,” Pryor said honestly. “You’ve never behaved like this before.”
“Like what?”
“Well, let’s see.” Pryor ticked off on her fingers what she believed to be her daughter’s transgressions. “You took more than a week from your job. You accepted responsibility for a man, three children, an injured woman and a bed-and-breakfast. You neglected to check your e-mail. I know, because I sent you at least one message every day and you haven’t mentioned or responded to any of them. When you spoke to me on the phone, your conversations were completely unlike yourself.”
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