Claire had seen the painting at a gallery in Santa Fe once, with Abuelita, and it had fascinated her. She remembered the perspective—the strong, wide trunk that grew narrower as it went up, and the proud branches jutting out from it, with their full, feather-like greenery. The top of the tree pointed like an arrow into a royal blue sky that was studded with white stars.
“What happened to the tree?” she wondered out loud, for she had almost forgotten that Stephen was with her.
“It died,” he said simply and then turned off the engine.
Claire got out of the truck and walked over to the area where the tree had been. The rock border was still there as well as the old, iron bench. But, where the great pine tree had once stood, there was now a new, smaller one in its place. Its trunk was about two inches in diameter, and it stood about as tall as Claire. The branches, with their sparse green twigs, looked like skinny arms. They seemed to wring their hands in the breeze, apologizing for their insignificance. The whole thing reminded Claire of Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree.
Stephen’s voice was beside her.
“The story goes that the other pine tree died because it was alone out here. Apparently, they need other trees around them in order to survive. That’s the reason all these others have been planted around this new one.”
As Claire looked around, she saw that several pines of about the same size had been planted throughout the park. The playground had been rearranged to accommodate them, and everything was actually quite nice and well tended. There was even a new marker explaining the legend and providing the date that the tree had been replaced.
Claire sat down on the bench, pulled her scarf back around her, and crossed her arms over her chest. “‘Nothing gold can stay,’” she quoted softly.
There was a pensive silence.
“Robert Frost.” Stephen sat down beside her on the bench. “‘So dawn goes down to day.’” He pointed at the sun, which was a big, golden ball sinking toward the mountains.
Claire looked at him.
“Sorry about your tree.” He sounded like he meant it.
“Stephen.” Claire put her hands in her lap. “I need to apologize to you.”
He didn’t say anything, but his eyes were curious.
“I feel like a complete idiot, but I made an assumption about you—that you were involved with someone else—and that’s why I said ‘no’ when you asked me out.”
Stephen blinked his eyes and cocked his head to one side.
“I know I should have been honest with you.” Claire fiddled with her nail polish, scraping her left thumbnail nearly clean. She made herself look up at him. “I am so sorry.”
“Who—what gave you the idea I was seeing someone?” Stephen’s eyebrows were bent, but his mouth was trying to curve up into a smile.
Claire closed her eyes and sighed. “You—your sister—me, I guess. I was analyzing it too much.”
Stephen tossed back his head with a deep laugh. Then he laughed again.
Claire pulled her scarf up over her face to hide her smile and her red cheeks. She peered cautiously at him from behind the scarf.
Stephen stopped laughing. Gently, he reached out and tugged the scarf downward. For a moment he looked at her lips and then back up to her eyes.
Claire explained, “You know the day you called me about the mole?”
“The day you turned me down flat?” Stephen teased.
“Yeah—that day. Well, that same day, Graeme had an appointment with your sister. My abuelita asked her if we should get a second opinion about my mole—and that’s when we finally made the connection. Doctor Marquez said, ‘Well, I’d trust my brother with my life’ or something like that. I could have died.” Claire smiled at him. “Abuelita scolded me all the way home, just like I was a child. She threatened to call you herself about the date, but I was too mortified. I figured you might hate me anyway.”
Stephen looked at her so kindly that Claire almost had to look away. There was something so deep in his gaze, so honest. Am I being too vulnerable—too open with this man?
“I don’t think there’s any danger of that,” he said, “though you did give my pride a pretty big hit. Some people would tell you that’s not necessarily a bad thing, though.” Stephen looked back at the sunset, and Claire thought he sounded wistful.
She shivered slightly.
“Are you getting cold?” he asked her.
“A little.”
“You know, my place is not very far from here. Would you like to go there and get a cup of coffee?”
Claire considered.
He stood to his feet, waiting for her with one hand extended and the other in his back pocket.
“I grind my own beans,” Stephen added. He looked so hopeful, and under the tender gaze of his eyes, Claire felt something in her loosen just a tiny bit.
“Sure. Why not?”
Chapter Fourteen
“Who was that staring out the window?” Claire asked Stephen as he drove past the Patricks’ house and turned into his driveway.
“That would be Nell,” he chuckled. “And I will have to give her a full account of who you are tomorrow.”
She looked at him, wide-eyed.
“Oh, don’t worry about it. She and her husband are two of my best friends. They sort of adopted me when I moved here several years ago. They’re wonderful people.”
“Why does she stare out the window?” Claire asked. “Doesn’t it bother you?”
“It did at first. But then I realized it’s kind of nice to have someone looking out for me.”
They pulled up to his house and Stephen turned off the truck’s engine.
Claire looked at him and laughed thoughtfully. “Looking out for you—literally. That’s a good one.”
“No pun intended.” Stephen grinned and got out of his truck.
He hurried over to her side to open the passenger door, but Claire beat him to it. She slid out of her seat, sort of bouncing down, and he couldn’t help but notice the curves of her body. She’d wanted to change, but he liked her worn brown cords and the rust sweater. They looked comfortable, like the brown leather Mary Janes on her feet. She wasn’t wearing socks.
Her face was just as pretty—maybe more so—without makeup. The crocheted hat only accentuated the tawny glow of her skin and subtle arch of her eyebrows. The natural flow of her dark hair past her shoulders was alluring to Stephen. He’d never seen it so “unfixed.” Wisps of it kicked up in the breeze, and Stephen detected the scent of jasmine.
“Stephen?” Claire said. “Are you okay?”
He was glad it was dusk, so she couldn’t tell he was blushing. “Uh, sure,” he croaked. “Let’s go in.”
The door was unlocked, and as soon as Stephen opened it, Duchess and Regina bounded out into the yard. They jumped up on him, licking his face, and he scratched them both behind the ears and rubbed their heads. One at a time, they turned their attention on Claire, who was standing beside him with her arms crossed. Stephen couldn’t tell whether she was offended or afraid.
Duchess pranced around her, tail wagging profusely. It thumped like a bass drum against Claire’s legs. When Claire reached down to pet her, Regina jumped up and pawed her, licking her face with a flourish and nearly knocking her down.
“Girls! Girls!” Stephen grabbed them both by the collars to hold them still. “Make a run for it!” he told Claire, and she skipped up the steps and into the house.
A few minutes later, Stephen followed.
“I apologize for them,” he said. “They’re a little excited.”
“That’s okay. I’m not really used to dogs, but they seem friendly.”
Stephen smiled at her. “That’s an understatement—and a kind one.” He took off his jacket and cowboy boots in the mudroom, crossed the dining room, and turned on the light in the kitchen. Claire followed suit with her shoes and scarf.
“Wow! That’s warm,” she exclaimed as she stepped into the dining room. She was looking
down at her bare feet. “I wasn’t expecting that!”
Stephen noticed the red-wine shade of her toenails. They matched her fingernails—all but the left thumbnail, which was bare. “Oh, you don’t have to take off your shoes. This isn’t a temple or anything. I just do it out of habit.”
“Your floor is so warm—how is that?” Claire asked him, walking across it and taking a seat in one of the high, swiveling stools at his bar.
“It has a geo-thermal warming system. It’s supposed to save money on the heating bill and be good for the environment.”
“Does it? Save money, I mean?”
“Yeah, I think so. Of course, I’ve had it since I built the house, so I don’t have a lot to compare it to.”
Stephen took out a stainless steel bean grinder from a corner cabinet. He filled it with dark coffee beans that he poured out of a paper bag from the freezer. Next, he replaced the lid on the grinder and pressed down, crushing them to a coarse powder. He poured this powder into a small canister that said Café and repeated the action. Then he measured out eight scoops from the canister and filled his coffee pot with water. While it was brewing, he took out cream and milk from the fridge and set them on the counter along with two mugs of Native-American pottery.
Claire watched from her stool across the room. “You’ve got this down to a science.”
Stephen walked over to where she was sitting. He stood beside her and casually rested his elbow on the granite bar. Her tan feet were alluring to him as she curled her toes around the black iron leg of his barstool. He’d never seen feet so elegant.
“How’s your leg?” Stephen asked.
“It’s good, but I’ll admit I’m a little scared to remove my own stitches,” she told him, raising up her pant leg and resting her heel on the stool next to her.
Her calf muscle flexed briefly as she did this and Stephen noticed that it was perfectly formed.
“Why would you take them out yourself? Why haven’t you just come by—” Stephen stopped himself when he remembered what she had presumed about him and Maria. This woman was pretty stubborn.
“You know, I thought I was going to have to find a new doctor.” She looked at him apologetically. “But I’ll come by this week.”
He moved over to examine her leg closely and tugged slightly at the skin around the stitches. “Well, I could just take those out right now.”
“Really?”
“Yes, they’re ready—if you are.”
“That would be great.”
Stephen took the pocket knife out of his jeans and snipped the threads before she even knew what happened.
“Excellent,” she said, rubbing her leg. “That feels better. Thanks.”
Stephen smiled at her. “No problem.” He folded the knife and slipped it back into his pocket.
Claire pulled down her pant leg and resettled herself on the stool. “That coffee smells really good.”
“How do you like yours?” he asked, walking over toward the coffee station he’d assembled.
Claire plopped down from the stool. “I’ll make it.”
He watched as she measured a spoonful of sugar and poured her cup half full of milk.
“Now?” he asked, holding the carafe of hot coffee.
She nodded, stopping him a half inch before the rim. She stirred it and took a sip. “Wow—that’s good. What is it?”
“It’s Colombian. My brother-in-law sent it to me.”
“Actually from Colombia?” Claire looked surprised over the mug she was holding up to her lips.
“Yeah. He’s over there on an extended mission trip.”
“I think you mentioned that to me. Is he Maria’s husband?”
Stephen nodded his head as he poured his own mug full of the steaming, black liquid.
“You like yours black? How can you stand it that strong?”
“That’s the way I got through med school.” He grinned, taking up his cup. Then he motioned to a wide doorway. “Do you want to sit out here?”
Stephen led her into the sunroom just off the kitchen. In it were two espresso-colored leather recliners and a matching couch, but Claire chose the floor. Sitting down Indian-style on the shaggy, cream-colored rug that covered a large section of the room’s neutral tile, she leaned over to grab a coaster, placing her mug on the coffee table beside her.
“This chair is my throne, but I’d be happy to share it with you,” Stephen offered, pointing to the recliner nearest the television.
“I like the floor just fine,” Claire said, looking like she meant it.
Suddenly the rug looked softer and more inviting to Stephen than it ever had before. He eased down onto the floor a few feet away from Claire and placed his mug on the opposite end of the rectangular table. Leaning against it, he stretched out his long legs and crossed his feet, still clad with white socks. There was a low rustling of denim, then silence.
“I can’t believe you’re sitting in my living room,” he finally said.
Claire laughed. “You know, I had that same thought when you were helping me unload groceries.” She took another sip of her coffee.
Who are you, Claire Caspian? Stephen wanted to ask. Instead, he said, “How’s Graeme doing?”
Claire glanced quickly at her cell phone, which she’d brought in by itself, separate from her purse.
“He’s good,” she said. “He’s at a birthday party tonight. I’m a little weird about it—we’re never apart except for school and work.”
“So, the asthma is better?”
“Yes, it is. Thanks to you and Doctor—your sister.” Claire smiled and bit her lip.
He’d seen women pay lots of money for lips like that.
“Thank you for sending us there. I really like her.” She looked into his eyes, arching her eyebrows. “I like her now, that is.”
Stephen laughed. Feeling emboldened, he turned more directly toward her and asked gently, “Claire, what brought you to Romeo?”
Claire looked down into her cup. Her thumbs massaged the handle of it, where the potter’s hands had shaped a delicate indigo camber. Then she turned away from Stephen, looking off into the distance through the glass wall of the sunroom. Her eyes stared out into the dark, as though focused on some unseen horizon.
A cloud seemed to descend on her, and Stephen wished he hadn’t asked that question.
“You don’t have to—”
Claire’s head turned swiftly back to him. There was a look in her eyes—almost a fierceness.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I don’t mind telling you.”
Stephen turned his body completely toward her, focusing all of his energy in her direction. He felt he’d been invited to witness a sacred thing—to enter a holy place. His eyes, like his heart and mind, were concentrated and intense.
“My parents were missionaries in Ecuador. They were linguists. We lived in Quito after I was born, but they needed more contact with the tribe of people whose language they were translating—a faction of the Colorado Indians—in order to translate the whole Bible.
“The group we were with decided that my parents should move into the jungle for a year or so to study the dialect of that particular group of Indians. There were already a few missionaries living among them, and so we planned to join those guys and work beside them. The only problem was that there were no other missionary kids and no school.”
Claire set down her cup on the coaster and folded her hands in her lap.
“I was six years old at the time and had learned Spanish in Catholic school in Quito, though we spoke English at home. My father was Anglo and Mamá Mexican, and both were big on my learning both languages. Mamá considered homeschooling me for the year in the jungle, but she was torn between that and her translation work. In the end it was decided that I would live with her mother—my abuelita—and go to school in the States for that year so they could both focus on the translation.”
Stephen nodded, trying not to pass judgment on her parents for their dec
ision. Stories like this always raised his ire. How could anyone doing God’s work dump their kid?
Claire continued, “The plan was that I would return to Quito when my parents did, a year later, but it never happened. They were killed.”
Stephen’s eyes widened.
“It was completely random. There was some tribal scuffle, and they were caught in the crossfire. That’s what the other missionaries told Abuelita.” Claire tilted her head to one side and peered straight into Stephen’s eyes. “I never saw them—or even their bodies—again.”
“Oh, my God,” Stephen said, nonplussed. He wasn’t a person who used this expression for anything else except prayer.
Claire’s tone was matter-of-fact. “I guess it was logistically next to impossible. The other missionaries buried them in the village.”
She continued, “Abuelita raised me. I graduated from the high school in Manassa. After that, I went to college at Adams State, where I met my husband. His name was Rob MacGregor, and he was there on a track scholarship. After finishing our degrees, we moved to Arkansas, where Rob was from, for graduate school. I got my PhD. and Rob became an international lawyer. We built a house outside of Fayetteville—where the university is—and Graeme was born there. I had a job teaching. We planned to stay there—his family is very close—but Rob got pancreatic cancer. He died when Graeme was three, almost four.”
Stephen did the math. “So a little over a year ago.”
“About a year and a half.”
Stephen’s brain felt like it was spinning as he connected all of the dots in Claire’s narrative. He shook his head, exhaling slowly. As he processed what he just heard, he never took his eyes away from her.
Claire looked back at him, Stephen realized now, from a deep well of sorrow. Her eyes seemed wise, like an old traveler’s. There was also the sadness, the distance, the ache he’d recognized on some level before but not accounted for. Not like this.
Love Finds You in Romeo, Colorado Page 11
