The Lavender Field

by Jeanette Baker

  “Has she said anything since?”

  “No, not to me, but she’s implied a few things to the kids.”

  Shelly raised an auburn eyebrow. “Such as?”

  Gabriel fought against the resistance knotting his stomach. “I wasn’t there for her, whatever that means. Our daughter, Claire, was born with a condition called Asberger’s syndrome. She would have been difficult for anyone to manage, but for Kristen, it was impossible.”

  “Why?”

  “Claire doesn’t relate like other kids. She doesn’t react with compassion or appreciation. She can’t understand concepts like fairness or sharing. We—Kristen had the other two kids as well. I moved us in with my mother, thinking it would take some of the housekeeping pressure off. That was a disaster. It was too much for Kristen. She threw in the towel.” He drew a deep breath. “And I inherited the whole mess.”

  “I’m sorry, Gabriel. You’ve been through a great deal. I think it’s commendable of you to take on your stepchildren.”

  “I appreciate that, Shelly. I wish everyone saw it that way.”

  “Meaning?”

  Gabriel shook his head. “I’m through. It’s your turn. You haven’t told me anything about yourself. How have you managed to avoid the domestic life so far?”

  “I was married for a while,” she said slowly. “Fortunately, there were no children. He’s gone for good. I don’t even know what happened to him.”

  “Why didn’t it work out?”

  “I’m not sure, really. We were young and wanted different things. I don’t remember being particularly devastated when he told me he was leaving. I watched him go with a sense of relief.” She smiled. “That was ten years ago. There have been a few possibilities since then, but nothing panned out. I’m beginning to think I’m not the marrying kind.”

  Personally, he agreed with her. She wasn’t a natural, comfortable kind of woman, certainly not the kind who appealed to him. “What about kids?” he asked.

  She shook her head emphatically. “Not for me. Children are a different species. I can’t even talk to them.”

  “C’mon, I’ve seen you talk to Eric.”

  “He’s nearly grown up. I’m talking about children, anyone under the age of twelve. You know, the ones who get into movies at reduced prices and order off a different menu. They’re the ones I don’t get.”

  This time Gabe’s laugh was genuine. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  Her eyes met his over the rim of her iced tea glass. “I’m glad we understand each other,” she said. “That way there won’t be any misunderstandings or expectations.”

  It took him a full minute to get it. Normally, women didn’t come on to him. The fact that he was married with three children kept even the most persistent at bay. “Look, Shelly,” he began. “I like you and I’ve enjoyed our conversation.”

  “But?”

  He wasn’t any good at this. “I’m sorry. It’s no reflection on you. You’re a lovely woman, but I’m not ready for more than friendship.”

  “I’ve heard that before. When men say they’re not ready, it really means they’re not interested.”

  He didn’t contradict her. The minute dragged out into two and then three. He couldn’t think of anything more to say.

  Apparently, she’d had enough. Gathering her purse, she stood. Her smile was brittle. “See you around.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Gabe loosened his tie and released his breath. He’d walked into that one with eyes wide open. It wasn’t entirely unexpected, not quite a disaster, but close enough. What next, he thought? What else could possibly happen?

  Dropping two twenties on the table, he left the restaurant, climbed into his truck and headed south on the 101. Passing his own exit, he turned off on the road leading to Ramona’s. Today was her day off. With any luck, she would be home.

  She answered the door immediately. With a finger against her lips, she ushered him inside. “I just put the boys down for their nap. If they don’t hear you, we’ll have peace and quiet for about an hour.”

  “I won’t stay that long,” Gabe assured her. “I came by to run something by you.”

  “Come into the kitchen. We can talk while I make us something to eat.”

  Gabe followed her to the back of what looked like an enormous great room. The house, a restored old barn in the middle of renovation, was in the roughest stage of its remodeling. Only the structure remained intact. Inside, every wall had been demolished. Open beams exposed new insulation and the staircase had no railing. Only the kitchen, Ramona’s office, was complete, with a Wolf oven, stainless-steel appliances, a sub-zero refrigerator, a convection oven, double sinks and enough counter space for four people to work comfortably.

  He pulled up a chair and sat down at the oak table, marveling, not for the first time, at how Ramona had managed to inherit the best characteristics of both parents, their mother’s creativity and their father’s pragmatic, no-nonsense ability to sift through the peripheral and expose the core of what was important. It was the latter quality he needed today. “I’ve decided to sell the horses.”

  She nodded. With a swift slash of her knife, she sliced through two heirloom tomatoes. “I thought you would. It makes sense, doesn’t it? I mean, it’s such an enormous amount of money.”

  “Why don’t I feel good about it?”

  Wedging whole basil leaves and fresh mozzarella between the tomatoes, Ramona scooped up the two stacks, arranged them on a toasted baguette and drizzled olive oil over the top. Then she poured two glasses of bottled water, added slices of lemon and set everything on the table. “You will if you think about it.”

  “I could use some direction.”

  She set two plates and forks on the table and sat down across from him. “Okay. First of all, this money will benefit everyone, including you.”

  “Go on.”

  “Luz is okay, and so am I, but Pilar could use some help and Ma is getting older. Running a B and B is hard for her.” She lifted a forkful of tomatoes and cheese to her lips and nibbled delicately. “I think you could use the money, too,” she said between swallows, “and not only because of the kids.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Ramona’s blue eyes clouded. “You need a challenge, Gabe. I’m not sure you realize it, but you’ve been in a rut for quite some time now. Nothing excites you. Your eyes don’t light up anymore. Starting up a business of your own, one that isn’t Dad’s, would do you a world of good.”

  “I appreciate the counseling, Ramona, but I was asking about Pilar.”

  “Pilar?”

  “You said Pilar could use some help. What’s going on?”

  “Essentially, she’s not making it.”

  “Why not?”

  Ramona chewed thoughtfully. “Some of it comes from her lifestyle, but there’s more to it. Her asthma prescriptlons cost money. That isn’t her fault. When Dad died, you and Luz were on your own. Your education was paid for. Danny and I were settling down. Pilar was still in college. She wasn’t able to finish. She has loan debt and she can’t go back to school until that’s cleared up. It would help a lot if she could finish. Luz helps her out.”

  Gabe stared at her, stricken. It never occurred to him that his pretty baby sister, with her wild butterscotch hair, honey-gold skin and dark eyes, hadn’t been provided for. He’d forgotten all about her asthma. He’d been so caught up with his own family problems that he wasn’t there for his sisters when they needed him. And now, when he’d been offered this windfall, they were standing by him willing to abide by his decision. “Christ, I’m a selfish bastard.”

  Ramona reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “You’re no such thing. What could you have done, Gabe? You’re up to your ears with your own problems.”

  But now you can help. The unspoken words hung there in the space between them.

  “Don’t beat yourself up too much,” his sister said. “You came here to tell me you were selling the horses. At some poi
nt you must have realized that was the right thing to do.”

  Gabe finished his tomatoes, stood and kissed her forehead. “Promise me something.”

  “What?”

  “Tell me when one of us is in trouble. Okay?”

  “Okay. I promise.”

  Driving home through the buttery afternoon sunlight, Gabe found himself at loose ends. He didn’t want to go home and he didn’t want to go back to work. He missed Whitney, her rich laugh and the tiny vee between her eyebrows that meant she was thinking. He missed her voice, the simplicity of her meals and the careful, complete way she had of answering questions. She was so sensible, so grounded. Seeing her working in the kitchen, quizzing the kids about their lessons, carrying in the tea tray for guests, gave him a glimpse of a world he’d only dreamed of, a graceful, ordered world as far away from the pulsing, scattered chaos of the hacienda as one could possibly be.

  An idea occurred to him and gathered momentum in his mind. The more he thought, the more possible it became.

  Twenty-Four

  Hello, Whitney.”

  “Gabe.” Her hand clenched the telephone so tightly the knuckles strained white beneath her skin. “How are you?”

  “I miss you.”

  Her stomach flipped over. She’d started this upfront, no games relationship. Now the question was, could she handle it? “Me, too,” she whispered, keeping her voice low so her secretary wouldn’t hear.

  “I need to see you.” There was an urgency to his voice.

  “Is anything wrong?”

  “No. I made a plane reservation. I’m flying in this week.”

  “Flying?”

  “To you. To Kentucky.”

  She swallowed and leaned against her desk. The edge bit into her hip. One word, one hint of hesitation, and it would all be over. “That’s wonderful,” she said, keeping her voice warm, her anxiety under wraps. “When will you be here?”

  “It’s all right, then? You haven’t changed your mind?”

  She could feel his relief and her own stomach settled. “No, Gabe. Nothing’s changed.” She closed her office door. “You can stay with me.” A thought occurred to her. She drew a long, silent breath. “It’s Derby weekend. Bring the kids. You can stay at Whitney Downs.”

  He was silent for a minute. “That’s a huge imposition for your family. We couldn’t do that.”

  “My parents will love it. Truly.”

  He hesitated.

  “I’d like you to meet my family, Gabe.”

  He hesitated. “Okay. You’re on. We’ll be there Friday afternoon.”

  “E-mail your flight information to me. I’ll pick you up at the airport.”

  “I’ve reserved a car.”

  “Have you come to a decision about the horses?”

  “I’m selling. It’s a go.”

  Amazingly, she managed to sound normal. “Fine. Call when you get in and I’ll meet you at my office.”

  She replaced the phone and pressed her palms, bloodlessly cold, against her hot cheeks. He was coming here to Lexington to stay with her and he was selling the horses.

  Again the phone rang. It was Everett Sloane. “I’m about to return Ambassador Moser’s call, Whitney. What am I supposed to tell him?”

  “It’s a go.”

  Silence. “Are you positive?”

  “Gabriel is flying in Friday afternoon. We’ll finalize everything then.”

  “Congratulations. I have to tell you, I honestly didn’t think it would happen.”

  She refrained from telling him she didn’t, either.

  He changed the subject. “If you’re free tonight, Wendy and I are having a few friends over to see the New Zealand pictures. How about it?”

  “I’ll have to take a rain check. I have things to organize at home.”

  Everett laughed. “I know the feeling. Another time. Let me know if you think we can take on the Razavi claim. It looks interesting.”

  “Definitely,” she fibbed, and hung up the phone, grateful that she’d been spared the photographic details of yet another Sloane family vacation.

  Pulling her hair away from her face, she let the silky-fine strands sift through her fingers, mentally noting that she needed a trim. Maybe she could fit one in before Friday. Then she sat down at her desk and flipped through the file she’d been given earlier this morning. Her potential client was an American student of Iranian descent, conscripted against his will to serve in the Iraqi army during the Gulf War, captured by American troops and detained for two years at Guantánamo Bay on terrorist charges. His parents, nationalized Americans, were putting up the money for his defense, but so far there had been no takers. Either the facts didn’t hold up, or no one wanted to take on the federal government. Whitney wasn’t sure it was even possible. The terrorist label was still new enough that precedent hadn’t been set. The case could go all the way to the Supreme Court. Part of what she liked about her job was the variety. Taking on a precedent-setting lawsuit meant doing nothing else until it was settled, and settlement could take years. Still, someone had to take it on. A man couldn’t vegetate in a military prison forever without a trial, not an American.

  She flicked on her lamp, slid one long, nylon-clad leg over the other, picked up a yellow highlighter and began attacking the first page of the document in front of her.

  * * *

  Carefully, Claire Mendoza pulled the curry brush down Lorelei’s left flank. A cloud of dust billowed around her head. Repeating the motion, she attended to her task steadily, talking as she worked. “You like this, don’t you, girl?”

  The mare flicked her tail.

  “When I’m old enough, I’ll ride you in the Grand Prix. You’re already good enough, but I’m not. Daddy says I’m coming along, but I saw the videos and I have a long way to go.”

  Lorelei blinked and buried her head in the mash pail.

  “I wish I could ride you by myself, without Juan or Daddy beside me.” Claire thought a minute. “I sort of did when Whitney was here. She sat on the fence and let us ride. It was only in the ring, but we still did it. Didn’t we, girl?”

  The horse continued to eat and the little girl continued to brush. “I love it when no one else is here except us. I guess it’s okay when Daddy and Eric are here, but that’s all. I don’t like it when it’s noisy. I can’t think.” Claire poked her head inside the tack room, found a hoof pick and a stool and returned to Lorelei’s side. She positioned the stool so the horse could see her, sat down and picked up the mare’s back left leg. “I’m not going to hurt you, girl,” she said gently. “Just keep eating. I’ll clean you out and everything will be just fine. You like being clean, don’t you, girl? I like being clean, too, but I don’t think I’d like it if someone was touching my toes. I’m ticklish.” She pushed her tongue between the gap where her front teeth should have been.

  “Mommy used to clean between my toes and I didn’t like it. You remember Mommy, don’t you? Sometimes, I have a hard time. I have to think really hard to remember her face. Daddy put away all her pictures. Maybe you don’t remember her. It’s okay. She’s gone now. She told me she wasn’t coming back, except to visit. I guess she didn’t like it here.” Claire pulled a strand of hair from her mouth. “You like it here, don’t you, girl? I do, too. Daddy likes it here and Eric likes it here and Gran likes it here and Emma—” she stopped. “Maybe Emma doesn’t like it here, but Whitney does. She told me she did before she went away.”

  The mare shifted her weight, lifted her nose out of the mash pail, snorted and buried it again. Claire smiled and pressed her cheek against the animal’s warm, muscled flank.

  Gabe stood outside the stall and watched his daughter minister to the mare. He held his breath, afraid to mar the scene’s perfection, the horse’s white coat, the little girl’s dark, loose hair, the chatty, confident innocence of her words, the careful movements of her small, tanned hands and, the part that stung the insides of Gabriel’s throat with its unconscious purity, the obvious love emi
tted by the child for the horse she considered her own.

  Her own. The phrase threw him when he realized its implications. Lorelei was part of the Lipizzaner package, a middle-aged brood mare with good reproductive years ahead of her. He’d given Claire the mare before he even knew about the damned offer. He couldn’t break her heart. Hell would freeze over before he’d make his daughter give up her horse. He would have to make Whitney understand. Lorelei wasn’t part of the deal.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” he said softly.

  Claire tensed, but she didn’t look up.

  “Hi.”

  “How are you doing in here?”

  “Okay.”

  “Lorelei sure looks good. She’s so clean. She looks like silver.”

  No answer.

  “Are you hungry, sweetie?”

  Claire shook her head.

  “It’s about time to clean up.”

  Claire’s small face assumed a rigidity that Gabe knew only too well. What did the experts say? Allow the situation to defuse. Give your child time to solve her own problem.

  Gabe stepped back. “I’ll finish up in the office. When you’re done, I want you to find me there. Okay, Claire?”

  Nothing

  He frowned. “Please answer me, Claire. Just say yes or no. I want—I need to hear your words.”

  Her lips tightened. Minutes ticked by.

  “All right, sweetheart. I’ll be in the office.” He turned to go. He was nearly out of the barn when he heard her voice again, talking to the horse, not to him.

  “I have to go in a few minutes,” she said. “I have to eat my dinner, just like you, only with Gran and Daddy and Eric and Emma. I wish I could eat here with you.”

  Gabe’s mood lightened. She sounded almost normal, like any other little girl with her favorite pet. No matter what else he gave up, he would keep Lorelei for Claire.

  Pryor sat out on the porch, a glass of lemonade in her hand. Lila Rae sat across from her, holding an identical drink. Between them was a half-empty pitcher and a plate of sugar cookies, another recipe of Tallulah’s so heavily laden with butter it was sure to bring on a heart attack.