Tell Me When It Hurts

by Christine Whitehead

  * * *

  The farmhands had assembled at the main barn, ready to work in one of the flat fields to the north. Before his trip east, Connor had always been there first, checking equipment and moving everyone else faster than they wanted to go. Since his return, more times than not, the men were there before him, leaning on the walls, scuffing their shoes, smoking a last cigarette if they thought they could get away with it before Connor arrived. Cigarettes were absolutely forbidden anywhere on the ranch.

  “So, what do you make of it, Felix?” asked Jake, a nineteen-year-old with a long blond ponytail halfway down his back. “You know him best. Don’t you think he’s really weird since he got back? What’d he say to you?”

  “Nothing. He just stares a lot and looks kind of dreamy. And then, he has that picture of him and that woman, the one who answered the phone out there. He’s all dressed up in the picture—hardly looks like him, but it is. Sometimes when I’m coming up to the office I’ll look in and see him just staring at it. Then he sighs and shakes his head, and that’s it—nothing else.”

  “Did he say anything about her? I mean, any fool can see he’s hurting. Anyone know a good therapist? When I lived in L.A., they were on every corner. Maybe we could do like . . . you know, an intervention kind of thing. Make him get some help.”

  In unison, every head turned to look incredulously at Jake for a second—eyes narrowed, heads shaking, no words necessary—then back at Felix.

  Felix continued. “I asked him once who she was, and you know what he said? He said, ‘A dream. She was a dream.’ Then he just went back to work. Nothing else. Isn’t that weird? A dream? She’s right there in the picture! I mean, yeah, he just meant she’s dreamy or something like that, but sometimes he talks in riddles, you know? He’s always been strange, but not this strange. I thought maybe he’d perk up after a while, but it’s been months.”

  “Hey, shut up, here he comes,” someone said.

  Connor’s truck pulled up to the barn. He clattered to a dusty stop, opened his door, and stepped out. “Hey, let’s go, ladies. What is this, a coffee klatch? We’ve got to finish that field and get everything up in the loft today. Rain’s coming tomorrow . . . let’s move it. John, Caleb, Bob, Tony, Big John, George, Josh, Kit, you go with Felix. Joe, Cal, Gregorio, Todd, and Edwardo, you come with me. Let’s hit it.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Connor sat on an airplane on his way to Edinburgh, Scotland. It was July. Shearing and lambing had been over for several months. Sales and contracts had to be firmed up and business expanded, if possible. He was thinking of hiring a farm manager—something he wouldn’t have dreamed of a year ago. He’d been a control freak all his life. Now . . . well, he still cared, but it was different. Sure, the guys noticed, and he knew it bothered them, but he couldn’t help it.

  Then there was the photo. They couldn’t seem to keep their hands and eyes off that photo.

  Connor had positioned it on his desk, tucked discreetly behind his phone, with piles of books and papers obscuring it. These guys, who wouldn’t have noticed an eight-foot grandfather clock with neon hands and a fifty-decibel gong, suddenly had acquired the most acute powers of observation. They had noticed the photo in no time and couldn’t seem to get enough of it. It wasn’t enough that they looked at it; there usually was some running commentary accompanying the viewing.

  “Nice tie, Mac.”

  “Now, where was this taken, Mac?”

  “Is that a tuxedo or a dinner jacket, Mac?”

  “That your girlfriend, Mac?”

  “How’d you meet her, Mac?

  “Why didn’t she come back here with you?”

  “Did she dump you, Mac?”

  Some would actually pick up the photo, turning it this way and that, going to the window to view it in better light, until Connor would finally grab it back.

  “Her name’s Archer, and she lives back East in the Berkshires.”

  When the man would look blank, Connor would say, “Massachusetts. You know, where Boston is? Celtics? Patriots? Red Sox?”

  “Oh, yeah, sure, I know Massachusetts, Mac. I’m not ignorant, you know. It’s near New Jersey, right?”

  “Not really,” Connor would mutter under his breath.

  After two months, everyone in the county knew that Connor had a photo of a woman named Archer in his office, and half of them had found an excuse to stop in and see it. The other half got a full report on it; then they talked more. Though Connor saw through the pretense, he figured it was part of small-town life.

  “She looks pretty nice, don’t you think?” said Ray, who ran the feed store.

  “Yeah, and Connor looks gone on her,” replied Charlotte, working the lunch shift at the diner.

  “Yeah, but where is she? Why didn’t she come back out here with him?”

  “Maybe she didn’t want to live on a ranch. Some women don’t.”

  “I think there’s some secret, Felix said to anyone who would listen. “Something happened, and Mac’s not inclined to talk about it.”

  * * *

  Connor landed in Edinburgh on a Monday and found the city bustling. It was odd doing business on the Fourth of July, a day he associated with barbecues, picnics, and swim parties. He had a room at Gleneagles in Perthshire. He had stayed there before and liked it well enough, though he usually found that a simple B and B met his needs just fine.

  Gleneagles was in a beautiful rural setting, with four restaurants, shops on the premises, several world-class golf courses, and stables. Although Connor played no golf and cared little for shopping, a few days of anonymity with some pampering at this full-service resort trumped the cozy but chatty ambience of a bed and breakfast.

  After checking in, he changed into jeans and headed down to the barns. They were clean and professionally managed. Connor hoped a few riders were still in the arena, working their horses.

  As he entered the lobby, a young woman called out in a heavy Scottish brogue, “Sir, are you a guest of the hotel?”

  “Ah, yes, I am,” said Connor, digging into his pocket for his key and approaching the counter. He showed it to the woman—Jane, according to her name tag—and she noted it on her pad.

  Smiling, she nodded. “Go right in, sir. Have a nice stay.”

  Connor pushed open one of the stable doors and ambled down the concrete aisle. Horses nickered, and some hung their heads out to sniff at him. He stopped to pat one on the nose.

  In the indoor arena, he leaned forward against the half-wall separating spectators from riders and took off his Stetson, resting it on the ledge as he watched. There were only three riders, but they were impressive. One young man took several four-foot jumps with ease and grace. A teenage girl skillfully managed a feisty thoroughbred that tried twice to run off with her. Last was a blond woman in her thirties—tall, willowy, lovely, on a sleek chestnut warmblood—prancing in an extended trot to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony on the speakers. All went beautifully until one of the barn workers dashed across the ring to get a shovel, and the chestnut spooked and bolted across the arena. Its rider cursed loudly but stayed on. Catching Connor’s look of amusement, she laughed and walked the nervous horse over, holding out her hand.

  “So glad you got to see that. Hi, I’m Fiona Ferguson. Please tell me you’re the new trainer,” she said, leaning forward to shake his hand. Her blond hair curled out from the bottom of her riding helmet, and her blue-green eyes crinkled as she smiled.

  Connor shook her hand. “Hi. Connor McCall,” he replied. “And no, I’m truly sorry to say I am not your new trainer, ma’am.”

  “Well, you are clearly not Scots,” Fiona noted, leaving it unclear whether that was a good or a bad thing.

  “I’m from Boston, Massachusetts, in the States . . . well, actually I’m now from Wyoming, out west. Are you a guest here, too?”

  “God, no. I train here, you know, with Mark Phillips. He’s not here too much, but he’s the best, so . . . it’s my last chance to try for the British Olym
pic team, so here I am for my second year. This fall is the tryout, so we’ll see. I live in a cottage down the road.”

  “Ambitious goal,” Connor commented. “Is that the horse you’ll be entering?”

  “Oh, God, no! This is a green prospect for next year or the year after. Good horse—just needs some mileage and seasoning. She’s still skittish at loud sounds, sudden movements—as you saw—but she’s a good girl.” Fiona patted the mare on her neck. “Do you like horses?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  * * *

  Connor and Fiona had dinner that night at one of the restaurants in the hotel. It was fun, and Connor felt good talking, laughing, preening a bit for the beautiful woman sitting across from him. At the end of the evening, he drove her home to her cottage, escorted her to the door, and kissed her cheek, thanking her for a lovely evening.

  Fiona smiled up at him quizzically and said, “Well, Boston, do call me or catch me at the barn tomorrow, or I really shall be positively heartbroken.”

  She went in, and Connor walked back to his car, buoyed by the lovely evening, and drove back to the hotel, where he slept well.

  The next day, he drove out to St. Andrews to meet with one of his best clients and discuss the next year’s order. The meeting went well, and Connor was pleased, though eager to getting back to Gleneagles.

  Arriving there, he changed and hurried down to the barn, where he saw Fiona riding a gray horse. When she spotted him, she waved and cantered over.

  “You gave me a moment of insecurity, you know, Boston. Thought I’d lost all my charm,” she said, walking the big gray gelding up to the railing. “I’ve been riding ’round and ’round all day, you see, hoping you’d stop in. Old Gray Ghost here is positively dizzy. He gave up on you hours ago, but then, I’m more determined. See if he makes it to the World Trials.”

  Connor smiled. “Had to do some business first, unfortunately. Dinner?”

  Fiona turned her horse away and squeezed, and as he broke into a canter, she called over her shoulder, “Okay. My house, eight.”

  * * *

  Dinner was splendid. Fiona was a good cook. In his honor, she had made roast beef, baked potatoes, and salad.

  “Isn’t that what you Yanks are always eating in the movies?” she asked with a wink.

  Connor smiled. “Only in Hollywood. In real life, we survive on burgers and pizza.”

  He returned to Gleneagles at midnight, whistling.

  The next day, they went to St. Andrews together. Fiona showed Connor where Prince William supposedly roomed, then took him to a small tea shop on a side street for tea and clotted cream with scones. They caught a production of Hamlet performed by a university theater group, then drove back to Perthshire singing Scottish ditties.

  Connor parked his rented car in front of Fiona’s cottage and turned to her. In the moonlight, she looked fresh and pretty. “My dear Fiona, I have to leave tomorrow for London, then back to Wyoming. The past few days have been great. I . . . I’ve really loved having your company.”

  Fiona looked down at her hands for a moment without speaking, then looked up, black curling eyelashes framing green eyes.

  “Will I ever see you again, Connor? Great men who are straight, available, employed, and love horses are not so very common around here.” The lightness in her voice had a serious edge.

  “Sure, you will. I’m in Scotland a couple times a year, and I’ll be watching for you in the Olympics—and, of course, we’ll always have St. Andrews,” he quipped.

  Fiona looked at him, questioning, head cocked.

  “Well, you know how, in Casablanca . . .” but he stopped when he saw she didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. “It’s just a little joke. Forget it. Look, Fiona, you are absolutely terrific. But my life is unsettled right now, and I wouldn’t want to mislead you, and I just—”

  “It’s that woman you told me about, isn’t it?” Fiona interrupted.

  Connor hesitated, then said, “Maybe, in a way. I mean, I haven’t even talked to her in over five months, and I don’t think I’ll ever see her again, but . . .”

  “She’s in your soul, though.”

  He looked up from studying his own hands and said, “No, she’s not in my soul. She has my soul. I have nothing to give anyone else until I get my heart and soul back from Archer. That’s just the way it is for right now.”

  “It’s always timing, isn’t it?” lamented Fiona, shaking her head. “Why are the good ones always taken, even when they’re not? Anyway, if you get your soul back, do come looking for me, darling. You know where to find me, Boston. At the big barn, attached to a big horse.”

  “You bet I will,” said Connor, hugging her good night.

  CHAPTER 32

  Archer sat on the porch with Hadley. It was the Fourth of July. The morning couldn’t have been more beautiful, and her preferred fireworks—fireflies, lots of them—would be out tonight. She held a mug of strong coffee and was rocking slowly in her chair. She and Hadley had arrived home yesterday evening from a few days with Gavin in Boston.

  It had been perfect—at least for Archer’s purposes. Gavin was relaxed and happy to have her with him. She wanted to chat, catch up on local gossip, and get his feedback on anything and everything. They caught up on shoptalk first.

  “So, how’s business?” Archer asked as they settled into a corner booth at a local pub, around the corner from Gavin’s nineteenth-century condominium in Beacon Hill.

  “Architecture is fine and booming. And our . . . um, other business is clipping along as usual. I was in San Antonio myself three weeks ago. I rarely do jobs anymore, but this one called for my particular talents. After reviewing the file, I decided to take care of it myself.” Gavin took a sip of his beer. “You heard about Barry?”

  “Yeah,” said Archer, sipping her glass of Scotch. “I heard he’d gone somewhat berserk and wanted to do every job you would assign him. Where is he now?”

  “We sent him for R and R to the Jennings Institute in Hartford. We have two good contacts there—one who heads intake and one who’ll be his therapist. When Barry’s released, we’ll have to make him an inactive.”

  “Will he accept that?”

  “Yes, he will. He has no choice. We’ll have to sit down with him and get him some ongoing help, but he’s a good man—just heartbroken. He’ll be okay in administration but not in the field . . . not anymore.”

  Archer nodded.

  “So, what happened to you and Connor? Not that it’s any of my business, but, well . . . what are friends for?” he added a little apologetically.

  “Long story, but if you want the Reader’s Digest version, his life is in Wyoming and mine is here.”

  “I see,” said Gavin, sipping his beer and nodding. “But just for a moment, playing devil’s advocate—and not that I want you to move any farther from me—what is so great for you about being here? I mean, they have phones in Wyoming, and they have courts of law in Wyoming, so what’s the draw here?”

  Archer looked startled. He, of all people, should know. He, of all people, should understand. “Annie is here. I have a life at all only because everything about her is here.”

  Gavin nodded, looking down at the table and fingering the yellow paper napkin under his drink. “You know, Arch, I understand all of it. But, since all of us are in this great waiting room on earth until we can find peace, it’s not a betrayal of the cause to get some joy where you can find it.” He paused and seemed to aim for a tease, saying lightly, “And Annie’s not really just in the Berkshires, you know.”

  “I know, but . . .” She stopped, trying to find words, and finally just held her hands up in resignation. “It just plain seems wrong to be happy when Annie is dead and I’m not.”

  Her hands dropped to her side, and her face fell, beseeching Gavin for an answer that she knew didn’t exist.

  “Archer,” he said, “Annie’s death isn’t made any less heinous because you survived and find that you can sometimes actually l
augh. We don’t forget what happened; we just know we have to go on. And since there’s no great honor in killing ourselves, we go on. Think about this. Why do you do this thing that we do? Have you ever asked yourself that? Do you do it for vengeance?”

  Archer thought for a moment, then said, “At first I did, but not now. Now I do it because I think it’s right. I feel sad every time I do a job, but I also feel like someone who is totally innocent may get some closure and a piece of life back because of what I did.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean,” said Gavin, looking thoughtful. “But, Archer, even though you know I wish it could be with me, life does go on, and love makes it tolerable. It’s the only thing that makes it tolerable. To throw away a real shot at love seems . . . oh, I don’t know, arrogant maybe. Or wasteful. I don’t know, but it’s just not something to squander. At least, that’s how I see it.”

  Archer nodded slightly, head cocked to one side, but felt unconvinced. She remained silent as she took another sip of her drink.

  “Look, Arch, we do this because we believe there are failures in the justice system, right? That justice wasn’t done. But we have our own failures. I’m not so blinded that I don’t see that piece of it. Barry’s situation isn’t common, but it’s pretty predictable, wouldn’t you say? For someone whose grief has exploded all bounds and has no other outlet? And our work didn’t spare Katharine from killing herself. To dull the pain is one thing, but you’ve got to have some positive counterbalance in your life. You’ve got to give yourself permission to look at the other side, even though in some ways it feels disloyal. If you don’t, it’s all negative and you can never heal.”

  They both sat in silence for a moment.

  “And what do you have, Gavin? What’s your counterbalance?”