by Gina Cresse
I grabbed the phone. “Hello?” I said, a little out of breath.
“It’s me.” The voice was familiar.
I paused for a long moment. It couldn’t be, could it? “Roger?”
“You sound good,” he said.
I may have sounded good, but I felt as though I’d just been hit in the stomach with a baseball bat, which was something I’d dreamed of doing to Roger for ten years.
“Bet you’re surprised to hear from me, huh, Kate?”
I nodded, only half realizing he couldn’t see me. I wandered into the living room and eased myself down onto the sofa. “How are you?” I finally asked.
“Not too good. My wife left me. I lost my job. I’m living in my car in Virginia City.”
His wife? The jezebel he’d dumped me for? He must’ve married her. I filed that away to analyze later. “Nevada?”
“I was staying at a friend’s place, but that didn’t work out.”
“Are you looking for sympathy?” He’d better not be looking for a place to stay.
“No. I want to talk to you.”
“After ten years?”
“I’ve wanted to talk to you for a long time, I just never had the… Can I see you?”
See me? A million images flashed through my mind. I had no reason to fear Roger, but Stanford’s question last night about ex-boyfriends, and now this unexpected call made me wonder about the coincidence. “I’m not going to Virginia City, Roger.”
“I’ll come there.”
I didn’t want to tell him where I lived. He’d gone to some trouble to find my unlisted phone number. If I agreed to meet him somewhere, maybe he wouldn’t put more effort into finding my address, if he didn’t already have it. “I work. I’ll meet you in Woodbridge for dinner, at the Cactus.”
“When?” he asked.
“Whenever you’re in town.”
“Tomorrow night. I can be there around six.”
“Fine,” I said.
“And I’m buying dinner.”
“Damn right you are.” He owed me at least that. By the time I finally hung up the phone, I realized my back door was wide open, the keys dangled from the lock, and Van Gogh had rummaged through a grocery bag and was dining on the drumstick of an organic free-range chicken.
After replaying the Roger conversation over in my head while I put my groceries away, I decided I had to call Dr. Monica P. Radosovich, the only female large-animal vet within a hundred miles, and also my best friend. We’d grown up together, sharing every Italian and Polish joke we’d ever heard, and making up some new ones along the way. Girl Scouts, 4-H, high-school choir, marching band—no matter what the activity was, Monica and I teamed up like Laurel and Hardy, or Laverne and Shirley, or Larry and Curly… there was no room for Mo in our world.
“You’ll never guess who just called me,” I said.
“Uh… Luigi Pianalto?”
“Who’s Luigi Pianalto?”
“Never mind. Tell me who called.” Monica was always trying to fix me up with one of her clients, or one of her husband’s cousins. Luigi Pianalto was probably an accomplice in her latest matchmaking scheme.
“Roger.”
“Scum-of-the-Earth Roger?”
“That’s the one. He wants to see me.”
“Is he nuts? Why in the world would you agree to see that low-life piece of manure?”
“To stop him from continuing to search for my address,” I said.
“Tell me you did not sign up to see that horse’s ass.”
“I didn’t want to, but he’d gone to enough trouble to find my phone number, and I didn’t want him to keep digging and show up at my door.”
“Roger always was a persistent little weasel. When you see him, would you kick him for me?”
I laughed and promised I would.
After I finished telling her the details of Roger’s call, I took a flashlight and hauled a new twenty-pound bag of cat food up to the barn, shoved it into a metal trashcan and slammed the lid down, pressing it tight around the edges. Let’s see those raccoons abscond with my cat food now.
The Cactus was a hip Mexican restaurant in Woodbridge that served raspberry Margaritas and homemade tortillas. Except for the neon sign over the door, the building looked straight out of the 1870s, with wooden sidewalks and hitching rails out front. When I pulled into the parking lot, I spotted Roger right away.
He sat on the hood of a blue and white Mustang, not nearly old enough to be a classic, but too old to be cool. He still wore his jeans three inches too long, a Western style shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the front unbuttoned halfway down, and that stupid black mohair cowboy hat that he’d worn on our first date. How long ago was that? God, seventeen years. I never realized how much I hated that hat until just then.
I got out of my car and approached him. He hadn’t changed much—maybe a few pounds heavier. A flood of memories came rushing into my head. We had been making wedding plans for a ceremony at the little white chapel in Yosemite, picking out rings, deciding on a date—and then the phone call at three in the morning that I wasn’t supposed to overhear. The other woman. What I wouldn’t give for a time machine.
“Well,” I said, not offering a hand or a hug. “It’s been a long time.” I wondered if—actually hoped—he’d gone bald under that hat.
“You look good, Katie.” He slid off the car and reached for me, but I backed away. Roger smiled and nodded as though he expected it—maybe even deserved it.
Inside, the restaurant buzzed with activity. Mexican music played just loud enough to be heard over the din of a hundred conversations. A huge flat-screen TV over the bar was tuned to a football game. The smell of freshly made tortillas wafted from the kitchen, and a waitress passed by with a tray of sizzling fajitas that made my mouth water.
We were seated at a booth near a window. Roger took his hat off and put it next to him on the seat. I was disappointed to see he still had all his hair. “What’s with the Mustang? I thought you’d never own anything without a bed behind the cab?” If Roger owned a pickup, I wanted to know.
“Had to sell my truck after the company suspended me.”
“So you didn’t actually lose your job.”
“Naw. I can get it back as soon as the doctor gives me a letter. I sorta went crazy after Justine divorced me. They said it was too risky to keep me working.”
“Why?”
“They have a rule against letting suicidal maniacs on a job site.”
“Imagine that.” I noticed the scars on his wrists. “You tried to kill yourself?”
“Naw. Not really, I don’t think. But the doctor says I’m bipolar and until he releases me I’m sorta on my own.”
Bipolar? I thought that was the latest term for manic-depressive. Somehow, I couldn’t picture Roger as manic. During the seven years that we’d lived together, he had one mood—grumpy. Justine must’ve brought out the best and worst in him. Looking at him across the table, I was thankful she came along when she did, otherwise I might actually have married him. “There’s a Motel 6 in Lodi. You ought to be able to afford that tonight.” I wanted to make it clear there’d be no chance he’d come home with me.
“I can’t stay. I have to have my face in front of a judge in Reno in the morning. Something about me not having any guns.”
I tried not to appear relieved. “Maybe you should sell the guns, at least until you get through this current disaster.”
“I ain’t selling my guns.” There was a hint of acid in his voice.
“Then go to jail. I don’t really care.” I swept my hand through the air to reinforce the statement.
“Nag, nag, nag. You haven’t changed at all.”
I leaned forward, my elbows on the table. “Why, after all these years, did you suddenly decide you had to see me?”
He fiddled with his silverware, avoiding eye contact for a moment. “Let’s start over. How’ve you been, Katie?”
“Answer my question first.”
“I just thought… if you’re not seeing anyone—”
“Oh my God!” I blurted. “You think I’d agree to get involved with you again?”
“I just figured… you might be… I’ve changed, Katie. Really.”
I glared across the table at him. What I really wanted to do was grab him by the throat and pin his head to the wall. I wanted to tell him that he’d ruined my life, that he’d broke my heart into a million pieces, and the old wives’ tale about time healing all wounds was nothing but a big fat lie.
My relationship with Roger was like the Titanic’s maiden voyage. He was my first venture into the risky waters of love. We’d stayed afloat for seven years, and he’d convinced me that we were unsinkable… but then the iceberg hit and I sank to the bottom of the icy-cold, deep, dark ocean. And that’s where I’d stayed.
I wanted to scream at him that the scars he’d left made it impossible for me to trust—that I’d gotten over him years ago, but that I’d never get over what he’d done to me, how he’d betrayed me. The worst part was that I could not even trust my own judgment. I wanted to hurt him the way he’d hurt me, but I realized I never could, not because I wasn’t that cruel, but because his heart was too cold and hard to break.
I smiled. “I’m fine, Roger. Thanks for asking.”
Chapter Three
On Friday, my alarm clock woke me up at 5:30 AM. No way was I going to be late for my appointment with Andy Carmichael. I hiked up to the barn and fed Buster and Emlie, then filled the water trough. As usual, the cats’ bowls were licked clean. Damn raccoons. I filled the bowls and called the cats so they could at least have a bite.
After everyone else was fed, I made a light breakfast for myself—homemade granola, organic Fuji apple, fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice, and a handful of vitamins. I sorted through a half-dozen blouses before I finally picked my favorite one—a deep blue sleeveless that brought out the color of my eyes. Not that I cared what Andy Carmichael thought about my eyes, since I had no intention of giving him the time of day—but I’d enjoy not giving him the time of day more if I knew he noticed my eyes.
As I applied mascara, I listened to my favorite country music station, which was in the middle of a news break. “California Highway Patrol officer Tina Delaney held a press conference about the sniper incident,” the news commentator said. “The shootings occurred at two-thirty this morning on Highway Forty-nine, two miles north of Grass Valley. There were no injuries, but four vehicles were hit. Early reports suggest the weapon was a rifle. Witnesses report seeing a car in the vicinity and police are asking for any information.”
I started on the other eye. “Wonder if it was a Mustang,” I mused to my reflection, focused on a lone white strand of hair mixed in with my brunette curls.
“Witnesses report the car is a blue and white Mustang.”
I dropped the mascara in the sink and gaped at the radio.
Andy Carmichael’s truck pulled up to my ranch gate at precisely seven. If nothing else, he was punctual. I opened the gate for him.
“Go ahead and park behind the Prius,” I said as he pulled through. “I’ll meet you at the barn.”
In the barn, Buster stood in the crossties with my western saddle on his back and a bridle hanging from the horn. I filled a saddle bag with bottled water and snacks. Emlie, under English saddle, was tied to the hitching rail, waiting to be bridled.
“What’s this?” Andy said as he stood in the breezeway of the barn, a suspicious eye on the horses.
“This is Buster, and that’s Emlie.”
“We’re not… I thought you said you had quads.”
“I do.”
“Where?”
“Right here. They each have four legs and produce exactly one horsepower.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. “I’m not checking twenty-five acres of vines from the back of a horse.”
I brushed by him, close enough for him to catch a whiff of the Elizabeth Arden Green Tea perfume I’d sprayed on this morning. I eased the snaffle bit into Emlie’s mouth and slipped the headstall over her ears. “Suit yourself.”
Once again, I passed close enough that he had to take a step back as I returned to the crossties. I patted Buster on the hip. Since Andy hadn’t turned around to leave, I bridled Buster and handed him the reins. “You ride?”
“I just told you I’m not riding your horse. If you don’t have quads, then I’ll just come back another time with mine and we’ll try this again.”
“You can come back another time, but you won’t be polluting my vines with exhaust from your vehicles. I plan on qualifying this vineyard for organic wine production with the USDA.”
He rolled his eyes like he was addressing an idiot. “Lady, I know a little about organic certification, and there’s no rule about motor vehicle exhaust.”
I checked the cinch, let down the stirrup iron on the English saddle and led Emlie through the vineyard gate, then mounted up and waited. “If you’re not going to ride, would you mind unsaddling him and putting him back in the paddock?”
Andy Carmichael glared at me as if I’d just asked him to give birth to the gelding, then he checked his cinch— revealing that he knew a thing or two about horses—and hoisted his tall, lean body into the saddle. Not that I cared or anything, but he looked good on Buster. He’d probably look good on a burro.
“Just so you know, my rate doubles for organic vineyard management,” he said as he rode Buster through the open gate. He did a double-take—at my eyes, I’m sure—as he passed me.
I smiled. “Good. I’ll expect you to work twice as hard.” I closed the gate, mounted up, and wondered if the credit limit on my Mastercard would cover his fees.
The vineyard was planted on gently rolling hills. The vines clung to heavy-gauge wire that was stretched the length of each row and fastened to six-inch diameter posts buried deep into the ground at both ends. Black plastic drip irrigation lines ran along the ground and water dripped at the base of each vine. Clusters of deep red Zinfandel grapes hung from the vines like ornaments.
Overhead, a pair of buzzards circled like big black gliders, which wasn’t an unusual sight out here in the country. Jack rabbits and squirrels often played—and lost—the risky “cross the road” game. Without the buzzards to cleanup road kill, country roads would be littered with their carcasses, and the smell would be unbearable.
Andy reined Buster to a stop and dismounted. “See that?” he said, pointing at a muddy puddle of water where the drip line looked like it had been chewed almost in half. “All this irrigation hose should’ve been strung up on the wires, out of the reach of rabbits and coyotes.”
“It was like that when I bought it.”
“That an excuse?”
“No, it’s a reason,” I said. “What will it take to fix it?”
“I’ll have a crew come in and repair the damage. We can’t raise it now with all the leaf growth, but after pruning this winter, it can be raised up and tied to the wire.”
He got back in the saddle and clucked to Buster to move on.
I decided it was time to have a little fun with Andy. “I want you to look into other irrigation materials,” I said as I trotted Emlie to catch up with him. “Copper would be coyote and rabbit proof, right?”
He gaped at me. “Are you insane?”
I shook my head.
“Married to Bill Gates?”
“Copper is the preferred material for water supply lines,” I said.
“For a house. You’re talking about miles of pipe. You know what that would cost?”
“No, that’s why I want you to find out.”
“Lady, you’re a real piece of work.”
“And when the crews are working in the vineyard, I want you to enforce a strict anti-cursing rule. Foul language has been shown to have a negative effect on water molecules, and hence, could affect grape production.”
It was hard to keep a straight face when he scowled at me,
but I managed to pull it off. “No “S” word, no “GD” words, and definitely no “F” word,” I said.
“You’re presuming that they’ll speak English.”
“The vines comprehend the emotion behind the words, no matter the language.”
The look he gave me reminded me of someone who’d just swallowed a live potato bug.
I let Buster take a slight lead, and I grinned at Andy’s back. “I’d like some quotes on installing a speaker system in the vineyard, too. Do you think the vines would prefer Andrea Bocelli or Luciano Pavaratti?”
“Dean Martin,” he said over his shoulder, a hint of a laugh in his voice.
This was going to be fun.
After we returned to the barn, I made him wait while I unsaddled the horses.
“I hope you weren’t serious about wanting cash up front,” I said as I rubbed the sweaty spot behind Buster’s ears after I pulled off the bridle.
“Maybe not about the cash part, but the up front part for sure.”
When the horses were put away, I wrote him a check and made a mental note to get a cash advance to cover it. A bounced check would probably end our working relationship before it ever began. I smiled as I watched him limp, bow-legged, to his pickup, and I waved as he drove away. As soon as his truck was out of sight, I gathered up some drip irrigation connectors, fired up the engine on my quad runner, and went back to fix the breaks we found in the irrigation line.
All day long I’d been trying to convince myself Roger couldn’t be the Grass Valley sniper I’d heard about on the news that morning. Who was I kidding? Roger was losing his wife, family, home, and his job, and he was on anti-psychotic drugs.
My friend Dave was a patrolman for the CHP, so I gave him a call. Without giving any specific details, I asked him if he knew the year of the Mustang involved in the sniper incident in Grass Valley.
