“I wasn’t snooping. It was there and I was curious. I mean, you said Annie had a horse, and I didn’t think it was some big secret. I just didn’t know you still owned her. I thought maybe we could bring her here—you know, we could both ride.”
Archer put down the plate she was drying and half turned toward him, twisting the dish towel in her hands. “Hey,” she said, “if you don’t want me riding Millie anymore, no problem. Just say so.”
“That’s not it at all, and you know it. I love that you ride Millie. I just think that if Annie cared about that horse, maybe it makes sense to bring—”
Without warning, Archer whirled around with the plate and hurled it to the floor, where it exploded into hundreds of slivers. She grabbed another plate from the drying rack and smashed it, then a third. More fragments flew.
“No!” she shouted, slamming her hand on the counter. “No, no, no, no!” She steadied herself against the counter, breathing hard, trying to regain control.
Connor looked stunned. But he stood his ground and said, “Archer, life goes on whether you want it to or not. You think doing whatever it is you do . . . on your outings . . . is going to make you forget. It won’t, and it’s killing you. I see it.”
Archer took a step closer to him, fists clenched. She then stepped back and roared, “Oh, really! You see? You see nothing. You know nothing.” She turned back to the sink, but Connor caught her arm.
“I know, Archer. I know.” He hesitated. “Well, I think I know. You do something that you think is justice. But it’s not, you know. It’s revenge, for sure. It’s even fair, maybe, but it’s not justice. Justice is the system that keeps it all in a box, the box that keeps us all from reverting to Lord of the Flies.”
Archer jerked her arm away. She brushed back a disheveled lock of hair and glared at him. “Oh, this pearl of wisdom from the man who’s never seen his own daughter. Come and talk to me when someone you love so much that you can’t breathe without them is ripped from you.” She looked away, then spat out, “Oh, I forgot. You’ve never in your life loved anyone that way.” She gulped a breath. “So spare me your armchair psychology, would you?”
She stopped and leaned against the counter. Then she said in a level voice, “You don’t know anything about me or what I do. You presume some easy fix. You think maybe I see the horse and it’s some instant healing thing. Bullshit, McCall! I am so damaged, they need a new word for it.” Her face was blazing now, and she looked as if she wanted to run out of the room but couldn’t. Now she shot out each word distinctly. “You just don’t get it, do you, McCall? The day I see that horse is the day I choose to die, because it would kill me. It would kill what’s left of me to see that horse. Whatever soul is left of my daughter is with that horse, and I can’t bear to contaminate that, too.”
She was still propped against the counter to keep from slumping onto the floor. After a minute, she quieted and said in almost a whisper, “You find Lauren in a dirty little alley, jeans down to her knees, torn underpants, claw marks on her face, and then we’ll talk about justice. You know nothing . . . nothing. You’re an amateur, McCall, who’s stepped unwittingly into the show ring with the heavyweight champ of the world. Get out of the ring, newbie, before you get hurt!” Each word rang menacingly.
Connor recoiled as if she had struck him. Then he straightened, as if with newfound resolve. “I still say you become what you do. It’s going to kill you, Archer. It’s going to change you, and there’ll be no coming back.”
“Coming back to what? You tell me that, McCall. Coming back to what!” Archer spoke in almost a whisper as she leaned over the sink, sobbing now. Then she raised her head. “Leave me alone, McCall. I can’t do this.”
“Can’t do what?”
“Oh, forget it.”
“No—say it.”
She pushed back from the sink and stood facing the kitchen window, still holding the edge of the counter, just staring. She said nothing.
“Say it. I want to hear you say it.” Connor enunciated each word and stared at her back.
She spun around to face him, tears running down her face, and bellowed, “Have you and her! I can’t have you and her. And I chose her.”
Connor started toward her, then hesitated. He stepped back, crossed his arms across his chest, and shook his head, and after letting a few moments pass, he said quietly, “That’s just not true, Archer. I may not know anything about you and this horse or about you and Annie. But I do know some things about just plain old you. You can’t bring her back, no matter what you do. Her death wasn’t your fault, but somehow you think it was. It just happened because some sick pervert was loose, not because you failed her in some way. I know that. And you do, too, if you’ll let yourself. And your love isn’t limited. If you give love to me, it doesn’t mean there’s less for her. I know that I love you, and I can’t stand to watch you destroy yourself.”
“Then don’t.” She straightened and moved stiffly to a kitchen chair, where she just drooped, head in her hands. Slowly she looked up. Connor was still standing, looking anxious, unsure, hands in his jeans pockets. After a minute, she said softly, eyes dry now, and voice drained of emotion, “McCall, I love you, too, but don’t ever mention that horse again. . . . I can’t take it.”
CHAPTER 26
The last week of February, the mood at Three Chimneys felt expectant. Connor’s calls had grown more frequent, until he was calling almost every day. Felix had all the shears, vehicles, and lamb incubators serviced in anticipation of shearing and the lambing that would follow, and he had arranged for roof repairs on the larger of the two barns and hired additional seasonal help. And although Felix was coordinating all the preparations, he sought approval and reassurance from Connor for anything bigger than a hundred-dollar plumbing job. Connor didn’t mind; he expected it as a necessary part of running a good-size operation from long distance.
On the mountain, Connor was restless. He felt like a politician about to throw his hat into the ring. While a win was no certainty, not by a long shot, the mere fact that he was jumping into the fray . . . well, it was enough to make you wake up tingling.
Connor’s excitement was tempered by fear. Archer never talked about tomorrow—only about today and, more rarely, yesterday. After the blowup over Allegra, Connor had tiptoed around the edges of Archer’s heavily fortified boundaries. It troubled him, but he felt certain they could talk things through, given enough time and trust.
Connor’s original plan had been to take Archer to dinner somewhere intimate and romantic and ask her to return to Wyoming with him. However, though he was a master at speaking to a boardroom full of executives or a crew of ranch hands, the thought of facing Archer and pleading his personal case was unnerving.
Connor wanted to say everything at once, so that Archer would have the full scope of his intentions before she gave her answer. He feared that he couldn’t talk fast enough to get his plea out before she raised an objection or reservation—she was awfully good at that. Then he would lose the advantage of the cumulative effect of his argument, perhaps never to recover.
His backup plan was to put his thoughts in writing so that Archer would have to read them through in their entirety and consider them in her deliberate way. She wasn’t good at being rushed or pressured, so this became his working plan.
It was a cold and dreary February afternoon, and Archer was out with Hadley getting the mail. Connor went into the kitchen and, opening the top drawer of Archer’s little desk table, took out two sheets of crisp white paper and a blue fine-point pen. Taking these over to the sofa, he sat down, leaning forward to rest the paper on the pile of books on the coffee table.
He sat with his elbows resting on his knees, thinking about what he wanted to say. After a moment, he knew what to say, but not how to say it in a way that gave it the proper texture. He needed three dimensions to explain himself, but his talents only enabled him to work in a straight line. His prose seemed flat to him, incapable of conveying th
e depth and nuance he felt. He was disappointing himself.
After laboring at it for an hour, Connor reviewed his note. It was unsatisfactory, but he could think of no way to improve it. He reread it once more:
Dear Archer,
I was at a low ebb when I came here. You screeching at me from behind your closed door was just about par for the course. I wish I had the skills of your hero, Mr. Hemingway—then, in a few sentences, I could make you feel what you’ve done to me. But I’m more Excel than PowerPoint, so I’ll just say what I need to say.
You blindsided me completely. I expected nothing when I came out here—nothing. I wasn’t unhappy, but I wasn’t happy. After meeting you, though, everything changed. For the first time in my life, I wanted to share my life. Until now, I never wanted to have responsibility for or to anyone else. This is a long way of saying I want you to come back with me to Three Chimneys. Share life with me. If you don’t like Wyoming, we can go anywhere.
I know what you do, Archer. Or at least I have some idea. Mrs. McCall’s boy didn’t get out of Harvard without being able to add two and two. I’m afraid for you, and I see what it’s doing to you. It’s keeping the pain fresh, Archer—always alive, always close at hand. With this thing that you do, Annie’s death is the entirety of your life. Grieve her, yes, but also honor her, but not by killing. That’s no legacy to leave her. Just because something is fair doesn’t make it right. What you do is fair but not right. Believe me, I don’t judge you. I just love you and want you safe and at peace.
Whatever happens, I plan to see my daughter on the way back to Wyoming. I’ve thrown away without a second thought what you tragically lost. You were right on that point (even though you could have said it a little nicer!). Shame on me. It’s too cowardly on my part to countenance. It’s too late for me to be a father to Lauren, but maybe not too late to be her friend.
Archer, the thought of living without you is so painful to me that I’ll only ask you once to come with me. If you say no, I respect you way too much not to believe that you mean what you say, and I will view our six months as just that: the finest, most wonderful six months I’ll ever live. If your answer is yes, meet me at three tomorrow at the Cloisters. If you’re not there, I’ll know your answer. I’ll stay at the camp tonight so you can think.
Whether you come with me or not, Archer, you are the love of my life. Know that.
Connor
After folding the letter in thirds, Connor tucked it in a white envelope and wrote Archer’s name on the front in his bold, blocky print, all in capital letters. He licked the envelope flap, closed it, and left it on the kitchen counter for her to find when she returned.
* * *
Archer found the note on the kitchen counter when she arrived home from shopping. She read it twice, tucked it into her jeans pocket, pulled it out, and read it again. Then she put it down and went over to light the fire. Once it was going, she pulled her chair close and, sitting with her legs tucked under her, read it yet a fourth time.
After the fourth reading, Archer let the letter fall into her lap. She leaned her head back against the chair and shut her eyes tight to hold back the tears. She loved Connor; that wasn’t the issue at all. If she went to Wyoming, she would be moving on, forsaking Annie. This was her penance. Bottom line: she knew she didn’t deserve to be happy. Her suffering was limitless; she’d earned it, and there would be no reprieve. The memories of her life with Annie and Adam were her torment. She couldn’t give to Connor what was left of her ability to love, lessening what was there for Annie. She couldn’t give him the allegiance she gave the Group. She was going to lose him, she knew. This was her karma, her fate, her legacy—more losses on the growing heap. But this she knew. She could do this until her time was up.
After carefully writing her answer, she jogged up to the Cloisters and left it there on the big rock, in a white envelope secured by a stone. Connor would see it. It was where they always sat and viewed the glory of the mountain during their jogging break.
She walked home quietly, taking her time, wending her way through the leafless trees. When she got back, she sat in her chair by the fire and wept. This time her tears were for herself and for what might have been.
* * *
Connor walked up to the Cloisters with a light step. He had a bottle of champagne under one arm, and a small bunch of flowers he had carefully selected at Stop and Shop that morning. They had wilted a bit in the crisp air but were still pretty and merry. Alice pranced by his side, not sure why the day was special, but appearing to know that it was. It was a beautiful February afternoon, sunny, about fifty-five degrees. The days were getting longer, and the sun felt cheering and somehow auspicious.
Maybe they would get a redo, Connor thought. Maybe everyone deserved a redo. He paced along the ledge, anxious for Archer to arrive. She loved him. She would come; he knew it.
At three, Connor began to pace in a wide circle, hands in his jacket pockets. She would be coming now. Soon Hadley would come bounding through the clearing a few steps ahead of her. He would hear them soon. She would smile and throw her arms around his neck. He stood impatiently at the edge of the cliff. He could see almost to Mt. Tom from here.
At 3:15, Connor began to worry for the first time. Maybe she wouldn’t come. Maybe she hadn’t seen his note on the kitchen counter. He turned away from the logging path to sit on their rock, and then he saw it, small and very white: an envelope. In her direct, angular script, she had written his name on it. It lay under a stone.
Connor moved the stone, picked up the envelope, and sat down on the granite boulder. Slipping his thumb under the glued flap, he opened the envelope and pulled out the short note, feeling a landslide in the pit of his stomach. He read:
Dear Connor:
This is the coward’s way out. Please forgive me. I could not face you. Hemingway and I both agree that less is more, so here it is.
I can’t go with you. To leave here and all that keeps Annie alive to me is too terrifying. Also, I lied when I said I didn’t feel guilty about Annie’s death. I am plenty guilty. I know as sure as I know the sun will rise tomorrow that if I had agreed to be a chaperone on that trip as I should have, Annie would be alive. If I’d been there, I would have looked for her and made sure she was on the right bus. If I’d been there, she never for a minute would have been alone or confused. I should have been there. Living with that knowledge is my burden, and I must pay forever. There’s no room for anything else.
You have given me a clean space in my life, however briefly, that I never thought I would have again—just a whiff of what could be but can’t. To laugh again, to dance again, to smile just because there’s a beautiful sunset to see—well, I haven’t had that for six years. You did this for me and it was real. It was real. But I knew it couldn’t last, because I’m unworthy of happiness. I wish to the very core of my being that it were different. Don’t pity me. It is both fair and right. As for “this thing I do,” I do what I do so I can still breathe. It’s that simple.
And we’ll always have Boston (please smile a little here).
I love you, McCall, and I will for as long as I live, and then some.
Archer
Connor finished reading and had to will himself to breathe. The once jaunty bouquet bent sadly between his fingers, then slipped from his hand and tumbled to the ground. The green champagne bottle sat untouched, still chilling in the snow, the glasses upright and still tipped toward each other. A celebration stillborn.
Connor leaned against a tree for support. His body crumpled forward, and he slumped to his knees, lacking the strength to remain upright. An owl in a tall pine stared down at him, then flew away as if alarmed by the sight. The squirrels playing nearby scurried away. For the first time in thirty years, since the death of the mare named Sabrina, Connor McCall cried. It was a muffled requiem, a quiet dirge of despair.
* * *
That night it snowed. The next morning, Connor packed up his camp, and at four a.m., h
e walked to Archer’s house to retrieve Millie, hoping Hadley wouldn’t bark. He couldn’t face Archer and her rejection of their chance at happiness together.
Hadley didn’t bark, and Millie came along easily. Connor tacked her up by the remaining moonlight; she seemed hesitant but accepting. The several inches of snow formed good footing for their walk down the mountain to the trailer, to begin the long trip home. Alice followed closely behind, a solemn shadow.
* * *
Archer awoke early that morning. She had slept poorly. When she saw that it was five thirty, she got up and quickly put on the coffee. She had made a mistake—she felt it. She wasn’t helping Annie; she was just beating herself up pointlessly. Pulling on her jeans, a sweatshirt, and insulated Wellington boots, she grabbed the lantern.
“Hadley, come on,” she called. They ran down the logging path. Archer anticipated Connor’s delight. He might laugh and say, “I knew you’d change your mind. A woman’s prerogative. I waited for you to come.” He might. It could be a Hollywood ending.
The sun was just starting to come up. She needed the lantern for only a few minutes, and then it was light enough to see. She jogged steadily, with each steamy breath vowing, I’ll explain, make it right.
She turned the bend, and the campsite came into view. She stopped dead in her tracks. The tent and equipment were gone. All that was left was a barren patch where the tent had been, and the outlines of tent pegs.
Archer drooped. It couldn’t be. But it was. It just wasn’t meant to be—that’s what it meant. She looked down the path that led to the road, but saw only Millie’s hoofprints in the snow . . . leaving. This was the Berkshires, not Hollywood. No happy ending to this little drama.
Tell Me When It Hurts Page 18
