Tell Me When It Hurts

by Christine Whitehead

  “We never blamed each other, but . . . but I was so ill mentally that I had nothing to give Adam or the marriage. And everything I did reminded me she was gone. That there would be no more Christmas mornings, no more Easter egg hunts, no more pancake breakfasts, no more Halloween skits. Adam could take only so much. I resented that he could go on, and he resented—no, that’s not right—he, he ached for me that I couldn’t go on. Our marriage ended that day in Washington, with Annie.

  “And so, we quietly divorced. I got my fair share of the assets, and my father, my dear father, left me—and Sharon, my sister—money in a trust that sends me a check every month. So much for independence,” she said ruefully.

  “So you don’t do any legal work at all now?” Connor asked.

  “Well, I do a little work for an international firm once in a while, some research and writing, you know, but it’s sporadic. Sometimes I have to go out of town to see the client in person, you know,” she said quickly.

  They sat quietly for a minute. Then Connor got up to make tea. “Want some?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  As he filled the kettle with water and put it on the stove, he asked, “Did you ever want more children?”

  “No, not really. I’m not exactly a well-balanced person, in case you hadn’t noticed.” Archer started drying her tears with her T-shirt sleeve now. “I worry all the time, and I need to be in control all the time. I thought, with only one child to worry about, I could handle it and actually be a good mother. One daughter was perfect for me, just perfect, and I felt so lucky to have her. I’m not a religious person, but I thanked God every night for Annie. When she would ask us if she was ever going to have a brother or sister, we would say we’d done so well the first time, we didn’t want to tempt the gods. You know, bad rice and all that.”

  Connor nodded, acknowledging the reference to Love Is a Many-Splendored Thing. The kettle began to sing, and he poured the hot water into two mugs. He dipped the bags up and down a few times, then brought the mugs to the living room, where he set one in front of Archer and kept one for himself.

  Archer continued, “Annie would laugh, but I knew she was pleased, you know, that she was enough for us.”

  “Did your ex-husband stay around Connecticut?”

  “No, he looked for a job out west and got one with a firm in Denver. He moved a year after our divorce, met another lawyer in his firm that same year, got married, and now has two boys—they’re around two and three years old, I think.”

  Connor was quiet for a while, just sipping his tea. Then he said, “I wish I had something really pithy to say now, Arch, but I don’t. And I’m sure you’ve heard every cliché in the book: ‘life is for the living’; ‘this too shall pass’; ‘she would want you to go on.’ How does anyone know what she would want? But I will say this. Unless you’re going to kill yourself, you have no real choice but to go on. And given that you have to keep going, I wish I could help you think of a way to keep something of Annie alive in a happy way, incorporate it into your day-to-day life and kind of, somehow, just strip the horror from what happened—sift through it and let the bad parts filter out and be left with only the good parts at the bottom of the colander.”

  “Good trick if you can pull it off,” said Archer. “I could barely eat for almost a year, and when I did, nothing stayed down. Between that and the cutting, I was not a lot of fun to be around. It’s just that I’ve always had this thing about fairness. Things should be fair. If you follow the rules, you should be rewarded, or at least not punished. I mean, I return library books on time; I drive the speed limit; I wait my turn in lines. I always figured you couldn’t come to any harm if you colored inside the lines, you know.

  “We taught Annie to be responsible, not talk to strangers, but in one instant, one slight mistake, which in most circumstances would have been fine, but in this one freak instance wasn’t fine . . . it’s just so unfair . . .” Archer’s voice trailed off.

  “You bet it is,” Connor affirmed.

  They both were quiet for a few minutes. Connor glanced down at his watch. It was nine—his usual time to head to his camp.

  “About time for me to go,” he said, looking at his watch. He stood up. “So what did Annie like?”

  Archer paused, then said quietly and firmly, “Horses. She liked horses. No, she loved horses.”

  “Oh, yeah? Did she take riding lessons?” Connor asked, interested.

  “Yeah. She had her own horse. I did, too. We thought . . . I mean, we always meant for it to be our thing together. We always said that when she graduated from high school we would take a riding vacation in England.”

  “You mean you ride, too?” Connor asked.

  “Yes, I ride, too.”

  “No wonder you were interested in old Millie. How well do you ride?”

  Pause.

  “Pretty well, McCall.”

  Connor grinned. “Coming from you, that means you’re probably practically an Olympian, I reckon.”

  Archer’s mouth made a little cryptic smile, but she said nothing.

  “So come over tomorrow and ride Millie. She’s getting fat and lazy.”

  “Maybe,” Archer said, smiling a little and downing the last dram of bourbon, chased with a sip of tea. “But I don’t think Millie would like you talking about her that way.”

  “I better get going—it’s late,” said Connor, smiling, too, and picking up his lantern. “I’ll see you tomorrow for your ride. Let’s go, Alice.”

  The Bouvier jumped up, showing a lot of agility for a big dog. Connor opened the door, turned to tip his hat, and set off for his camp.

  Archer watched until he disappeared into the woods. She got up to pour herself another drink, then stopped. Maybe she didn’t need a second drink—or a third—to sleep tonight. She’d thought she would feel wretched after talking about Annie. Usually, when someone asked if she had children, she just said, No, I haven’t been that lucky, thus avoiding the obvious next question that would follow a “yes” answer.

  Still, Archer slept soundly without the second dose of Maker’s Mark’s helping hand, with no shrieking banshees tearing after her in her dreams for one night.

  CHAPTER 13

  Archer showed up at Connor’s camp at midmorning, just as he was trudging up the path from the road, returning from the motel.

  “Hey, you live pretty rugged, McCall,” Archer commented. Despite her observations during her morning trysts with Millie, she had never thought through the logistics of living in a tent. Today she did.

  He shrugged. “No worse than when we bring in the herd from the far pastures at the end of the summer, and it’s a lot warmer here. Plus, I do have my little arrangement with the innkeeper down the road.”

  Archer plopped down on the big, lichen-speckled granite boulder next to the tent and began eating the apple she had brought for Millie. She watched Connor soap up Millie’s bridle and polish it with a clean, dry cloth.

  Munching on the apple and watching him, Archer was reminded what a damned attractive man this was: tall, broad-shouldered, lean, with a great smile, dark hair with just a hint of gray at the edges, clean-shaven, dark blue eyes . . . and beautiful forearms. It was crazy, but she loved strong, sinewy forearms, tan from a day’s work. And he was clean, always squeaky clean.

  As Connor worked on the saddle, she thought of yesterday, when they went swimming at a pond not far from Connor’s campsite. She had christened the pond “tiny tempest,” in dubious tribute to Connor’s Wyoming hometown, Little Tempest.

  It had been a hot day for October. Archer had felt Connor’s eyes on her as she emerged from under the little waterfall, sputtering and laughing, in her white T-shirt and denim shorts. He had steadied her as she stumbled on the rocky bottom. He’d held her hand, his left hand on her hip, her wet shirt clinging to her, concealing nothing.

  Connor gazed at her not so much lustfully as admiringly, she thought. Or maybe it was just her imagination. He’d become almost shy for
a moment, then bridged the awkwardness with a lame joke about it being a good thing he was there, lest she drown and leave Hadley orphaned.

  She had laughed and shoveled water at him as he ducked and weaved out of her way. Finally he succumbed to her grabs as she pulled him with her under the waterfall. No question, Archer had felt the heat of desire.

  Connor had clowned a little as they walked back to the cabin, hair dripping, towels draped over their shoulders. Not that she wanted things to escalate—God, no, that would just complicate things.

  Snapping back to the present, Archer asked, “So, how long do you think you’ll be staying here?”

  After closing the can of saddle soap, he looked up. “Don’t know. I have to be back at the farm by lambing time . . . maybe sooner.”

  “When’s that?”

  “Oh, end of February, early March, I’d say. But by rights, I should get back before Christmas to prep the ranch for spring shearing and then lambing.”

  “Oh,” Archer replied, still munching on the apple. “But don’t you miss Boston? I mean, do you really like Wyoming?”

  “Really like Wyoming?” Connor mimicked, laughing. “Sometimes you do talk like a girl, Archer. Yeah, I do really like Wyoming, but I’ve gotta say, it took a while. There’s a vastness to everything out there that can be exhilarating or bleak, depending. And then the winters—they were even colder than I expected.” He shook his head. “But then, spring suddenly comes on you, and the sky gets real high and as blue as blue gets, and then I wonder how anyone could live anywhere else.”

  “It sounds beautiful,” Archer sighed. “I’d like to see it someday.”

  “Well, then I’m sure you will. So . . . let’s get this show on the road, shall we?” he said, handing her Millie’s tack. “You already have a passing acquaintance with this stuff—and with my horse, as I recall.”

  Last night, over burgers, Archer had confessed to visiting Millie daily, though she omitted her invasion of the tent. Now deciding that the best defense was a good offense, she said, “Well, didn’t you notice Millie looked a lot nicer? I never heard any thank-yous, now that you mention it.”

  Connor shot her a sidelong glance. “Uh, not really. We kind of use our horses in a functional way in Wyoming, much as we love ’em. I don’t inspect her daily for dust, since everything’s dusty. I did think she was getting a bit vain, though, staring at herself in the brook all the time, but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out where that was coming from. Now I know.”

  “Hah! Very amusing. You should do stand-up.”

  He didn’t look at her, but he smiled. “You could have just asked to play with my horsey, you know. I don’t bite.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  He laughed and tossed a halter to her, with a lead rope attached. She caught it in one hand. Archer stepped over to Millie, fastened the halter, and then just let the rope hang. She began brushing the mare, who kept grazing.

  With Millie brushed and her hooves picked out, Archer grabbed a fresh saddle pad from Connor’s tack pile and threw it over Millie’s back. It fell smoothly into place. Then she settled a heavy brown western saddle on her back and nestled it into the gentle swale between withers and rump. Archer stared at all the leather loops and ties on the saddle.

  “Hey, McCall, what goes where? This is a big mess—too many strings and hangy things,” she protested, glaring at the saddle and grabbing various ties and thongs, trying to make sense of it all. Millie stood patiently waiting.

  Connor was repacking dry goods in the hanging satchels. He turned, looked amused, and ambled over.

  “Still need me, huh?” With a couple of tugs on the girth, the saddle was snug.

  “I ride English. It’s not like this,” she murmured, a little defensively.

  “Uh-huh.”

  As Archer stood next to Millie, her heart began to race with excitement. Then it slowed. She hadn’t ridden since she gave away her own horse, Half Moon Bay, just after Annie’s death. Half Moon was the horse she’d bought after Clique’s death. He’d proved honest, talented, and sweet. But now her hands began to tremble.

  I can’t get on this horse, she thought. It’s not fair to Annie. But almost as quickly, she thought: You’re being crazy as a bat. Annie loved horses. She wouldn’t want them gone from your life any more than she’d want them gone from hers. Stop being such a drama queen.

  Archer shoved her quaking hands into her jacket pockets and leaned into Millie to steady herself. Millie stood her ground, then bent her neck and looked back at Archer.

  Archer blinked, then took a deep breath. She grabbed the saddle horn, put the toe of her left boot in the wide western stirrup, took a quick bounce, and swung her right leg up and over. Settling in, she breathed a sigh of contentment. It felt like opening the front door of her cabin after a long trip.

  She sat up and squeezed lightly with her calves, and Millie immediately started away from the camp in a relaxed stride. Connor looked up and waved. Archer grinned and waved back.

  When she was ten minutes away and out of earshot, she stopped and bent low to wrap her arms around Millie’s neck. Then she straightened and stood up in her stirrups, raised both arms, and opened her hands to the sky in a silent gesture of thanks. After a minute, she lowered herself back into the saddle and pressed with her calves, moving into a walk.

  For more than two hours, Archer and Millie walked down hills, trotted up slopes, and cantered along level open stretches where the footing was firm. On one long gallop, Archer imagined herself on Clique—a team again, tearing up the countryside, jumping logs and stone walls and fences just because they were there. While Millie was no Grand Prix jumper, she easily took the fallen logs on the paths, and even jumped a stone wall with grace, her black mane and tail flying. Millie, my dear, you’ve been holding out on me, thought Archer, delighted, stroking the little mare’s neck on the walk back to the camp.

  When she got there, Archer couldn’t stop grinning. “It was beyond wonderful, McCall! I don’t know how to thank you,” she said, swinging out of the saddle and handing him the reins. Connor smiled back and said, “Well, I can see that Millie enjoyed the ride.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Archer stood at the kitchen counter, peeling potatoes for dinner and reflecting on her morning with Millie. It was getting dark earlier. Next week they would turn back the clocks. Hadley sat near her bowl, waiting less than stoically for her evening kibble. Archer finished the potatoes and put a pot of water on to boil.

  Hearing three raps at the back door, she looked out to see Connor and Alice. She smiled and opened the door.

  “Hi. What’s cooking?” he asked.

  “Mashed potatoes, flounder, and salad.”

  Archer’s cell phone rang, and she followed the sound to the jacket hanging by the back door.

  “Hello?” she said. Her smile broadened. “Gavin! How the hell are you?”

  Pause.

  “That’s terrific—it’s quite a feather in your cap to get that kind of a commission!”

  Pause.

  “Oh, gee, Gavin, I just did a job last month. I’m in the midst of a project here, so I think I’ll pass on this one, if you don’t mind.”

  Pause.

  “Oh, I see. New York? Well, if there’s no one else. . . . Wait just a sec.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a pad of brightly colored paper and a pen. “Okay, go.” She took a few notes. “Okay, fine. You’ll send me the itinerary and specifics by overnight mail tomorrow?” . . . “Okay, yeah, I think so.” . . . “Got it.” . . . “When do you need it done?” . . . “This week’s okay, then?” . . . “Okay . . . I’ll get it done. . . . Good-bye, Gavin. See you soon.”

  Archer hung up, lost in thought. Connor looked at her, took off his saddle-colored jacket, and hung it on the peg over her jacket.

  “So?” he asked.

  “Huh? Oh, sorry, I was off somewhere else.”

  “So, who’s Gavin? Your secret lover?” he asked, moving his eyebrows up
and down in a credible Groucho Marx imitation.

  Archer laughed. “Hardly. He’s an old friend—an architect in Boston. He’s only thirty-four—way too young for me.”

  She said the words, knowing that Gavin had been in love with her for years. He’d joined the Group nine years ago, after the murder of his wife and two-year-old son, and had since become the East Coast coordinator. He and Archer had become close confidants and best friends after Annie’s death. He admired Archer’s directness, energy, and passion—to him, not letting go was a plus. They spoke at least weekly and met at least once a month for informal dinners in Springfield or Sturbridge.

  She came up from her thoughts to hear Connor saying, “Hey, don’t knock it. The older woman younger man thing is very hot, you know. How old are you, anyway?” He was looking in the cabinet for the corkscrew.

  “I turned forty-three a month ago, September fifth,” Archer said.

  “Really? I would have pegged you for ten years younger than that.”

  “Clean living, McCall, clean living. And since we’re getting personal, how old are you, pray tell?”

  “I turned forty-nine last August. And don’t tell me you pegged me for ten years older than that—I couldn’t take it,” he said, testing the boiling potatoes. “So, what led your young friend to call?”

  “Legal work—a quick research project.”

  “Ah . . .”

  Archer retook her territory in the kitchen, and Connor set the table, then sat reading a British magazine, The Field, on Archer’s coffee table. Archer checked the flounder, and Alice fell asleep on one end of the sofa as Hadley fussed around the kitchen. Archer opened the door, and the Lab scooted out.

  An hour passed. They were just clearing the table when they heard the howl. Archer dropped the dish of potatoes; it shattered on the floor.

  “Hadley!” she cried.

  Grabbing Connor’s xenide lantern from the counter, Archer flung open the back door and bolted in the direction of the howl.