Читать книгу A New Hope - Robyn Carr, Robyn Carr - Страница 9

Three

Grace walked around the great room of the new house. It was freshly painted. She hoped her mother would approve of the colors she’d chosen—ivory with dark brown accents in the great room. Taupe with just a touch of mauve in it, dark accents, ivory ceiling in the master bedroom. It was restful, she thought. On Monday they would install the kitchen cupboards and light fixtures and continue work on the shower in the master bath. The thing she thought was the smartest and most practical—a curved glass cinder block wall rather than a shower door for accessibility and also for the elegant design—that was taking the longest. Workers had spent days on that one small project.

Troy was taking advantage of a warm sunny Saturday with only a light breeze rather than strong winds off the Pacific to seal the deck and steps to the beach. The sealer dried so quickly he was already on the second coat and it was early in the afternoon. Sealer had been sprayed on the underside of the deck before Troy brushed on the topside. Spencer, their next-door neighbor and Troy’s colleague at the high school, was at work on the steps—fourteen from the deck to the lower level, fourteen from the lower level to the beach. The main level of the houses was thirty feet above the beach.

She found herself standing just inside the great room doors watching Troy. His jeans were ripped at the knees and he wore a T-shirt with the sleeves torn off, exposing those biceps and forearms she loved so much. The jeans fit perfectly on his booty. He wore a cap to cut down on the glare, but he yanked it off regularly to wipe the sweat from his brow. He was just as sexy sweaty as he was all primped up.

He caught her staring and shot her that dazzling smile of his. “What are you looking at, little mama?”

“Dinner, I think.” And then she bit her lip.

There would be enough to do to keep them busy for quite a while, but she thought she could get her mother in the house in two weeks. And she suspected that her former skating coach, Mikhail, would be staying with them for some time. He had said, “I will come to this place if you could secure a little room in a cheap hotel. Just a bed is all I need—I despise to sleep on the floor. Someone should help get her settled. Winnie can be difficult. Then I will leave.”

Difficult? She could be a nightmare! But Winnie was ill now, losing her physical stamina, failing as ALS took over and the fatigue she suffered from made her more docile. It was true she had always listened to Mikhail. And Mikhail had said he was coming for two or three days and he’d been there over a month already. She’d better get that second upstairs bedroom and bath finished for him. She had a feeling Mikhail planned to stay much longer than he let on. There was an affection between Mikhail and Winnie that Grace couldn’t really identify. Not romance, certainly. Friendship, but more than the usual friendship. Partnership. Mikhail had been Grace’s coach for years, from the time she was fourteen until she was in her early twenties and quit competing, and through all that time he had stayed close to both Grace and Winnie.

Virginia, Winnie’s assistant, would stay in her position until that big albatross of a house in San Francisco was closed and all the possessions were dealt with. There were a few pictures Grace wanted for this house, but the rest of her mother’s art was going to a fine-art museum on long-term loan—it would be displayed as The Banks Collection. With the help of the now part-time housekeeper, some things were being packed and shipped to Thunder Point—just a few treasured pieces of furniture, some dishes, kitchenware, her mother’s precious bedroom rug, a valuable Aubusson. Then there would be an estate sale—the furs and most of the jewelry would be included. Grace would have to make a couple of quick trips to look through things—there were undoubtedly photo albums, books, mementos and keepsakes that should be preserved.

Virginia was looking for a roomy flat in the city where she could live and work until the estate was settled. Then Grace just might ask her if she wanted to continue to manage the estate after Winnie was gone.

Meanwhile, that handsome history teacher on the deck was trying to get a binding pre-nup. He wasn’t looking for half, he was looking for nothing. He never wanted it even suggested that he was interested in Grace’s legacy. That would be the money she would inherit because as of now she had a flower shop and about a year’s income in the bank, cautiously invested. Troy had been intimidated by Winnie’s house and furnishings. If he ever saw the actual bottom line, the net worth, he might stroke out.

Oh, they were going to make interesting neighbors. A teacher and flower shop owner, now expecting. A diva with ALS who would probably sit on the deck in a wheelchair wearing furs and diamonds. Full-time nursing help. And a little Russian coach who liked raisins in his wodka.

“Troy!” she called. “I think I’m going to do a little painting in the loft.”

He straightened and pulled off his cap. “You paint nothing! There are fumes. You can sweep. Or go arrange flowers. Or call your mother and tell her how helpful I am.”

“She already likes you more than she likes me,” she muttered.

“As it should be,” he said.

“Wow. Good ears!”

“I’m a high school teacher! I have to hear everything!” he shouted.

“And so do I,” Spencer yelled from the bottom step.

* * *

Matt Lacoumette had one of those grueling weeks where he had to be everywhere at once. There was fertilizing to do in the orchard—the flowers were giving way to buds of fruit and it was a delicate time. Some of George’s ewes had lambed but there were some late breeders ready now. He liked to shear the ewes to make their lambing easier, and Matt helped with that. Then they liked to get the ewes delivered so they’d be ready to breed by fall. Everything happened in spring and fall, over months—the planting, the harvesting, the pears, the grapes, the lambing, the breeding. And things were not going to calm down anytime soon—there was more shearing to be done after lambing so the sheep could grow nice coats over summer. On top of that, he had to teach a couple of classes before the end of term.

If all that wasn’t enough, he had to deal with Lucy, who kept calling him. Despite the fact that he’d been clear he was not in the market for a girlfriend, Lucy, like so many women, thought he’d change his mind. So she cried and he had to do his best to assure her there was nothing at all wrong with her—she was lovely and smart and sexy. It was him—he was not going to be anyone’s boyfriend. It was brutal.

And then, after leaving his last class of the week, he left the building to find Natalie leaning against his truck. She was sporting yet another hair color and style—this time it was jet black. The last time he’d seen her it was brown with red highlights. When they were together he’d gotten the biggest kick out of her change in looks, every variation beautiful. There it was again—he was feeling both lust and rage.

“What is it, Nat?” he asked.

“I thought maybe we could have a cup of coffee,” she said.

“Because...?”

“Because having you hate me is killing me! Please, Matt!”

He took a breath. “I don’t hate you,” he said patiently. It was a lie, he really did hate her. The problem was that he was also still drawn to her. He could love her if he’d just relax and let himself, but he’d be damned if he’d even entertain that notion. “We’re not having coffee. We’re not trying again or patching things up or being good friends. We thought we felt the same way about things and it turned out we felt the opposite way about important things. We made a mistake, Natalie. I have to go now. It’s been a long week.”

She didn’t budge. “And you have to get to bed!”

He ground his teeth. “I’ll call campus security,” he threatened. “And I’ll tell Dr. Weymouth I can’t give any more classes because his department secretary is harassing me.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“I would. I should. Now get out of here and please, no more of this.”

“But when are you going to forgive me?” she said, crocodile tears running down her cheeks.

“There’s something I just can’t forgive. Everything else is a distant memory, but that one thing—”

“God, who knew you were so Catholic!”

He clenched his hands into fists. They’d been over this, too. It wasn’t religious or political. It was his personal ethic about marriage, their marriage in particular, about how marriage had to work. There had to be give and take, they had to talk about deeply personal issues, they had to find a way to compromise. There had to be trust. They couldn’t lie to each other. They failed at marriage and it had nothing to do with his religion. As far as he knew every religion shared similar if not identical ethics.

He took out his cell phone.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Calling campus security. Then Dr. Weymouth...”

“Ugh!” she grunted, moving out of his way. Then she stomped back toward the building in her high heels with ankle straps, her short skirt and long legs more than distracting.

He grimaced. He should probably quit this gig anyway. He sure didn’t do it for the money. Most months of the year he could slip it into his schedule easily but spring and fall especially, it was a real inconvenience. It was just that he liked the students. There were only a few who took these particular classes to check off a box or try to get by with an easy class. Most of them were either premed or heading into agriculture or environmental science. They asked stimulating questions, created interesting dialogue and arguments, gave him something to think about. They were sharp.

He thought about going out for the evening or back to his apartment. Instead, he went to the farm even though he’d been there all morning. The nice thing about the family home, he didn’t need a reservation. The door was never locked; there was no possibility his parents wouldn’t be home. If they had plans, somewhere to go, he’d hear about it weeks in advance.

He walked in, found his mother in the kitchen and gave her a kiss. She acted like she barely had time for the kiss. “Coffee? Wine?”

He looked at his watch. “Wine, thank you. Rioja. The red. Do you have a full table tonight?”

“George, Ginny, their families. I have no trouble squeezing in one more.”

“Thanks. I’m starving.”

“And, as you can plainly see, I am cooking. I’ll have you some tapas in a minute.” She put a glass of wine in front of him. “You usually move in and out of this house without a word, unless it’s business. Tonight is different. You’re friendly.”

He laughed. His parents could really read their kids. Even as adults! “I wanted to speak to Papa but you’ll do. I want to give up that apartment—it’s too much trouble. But I don’t want to live in the house. What I’d like to do is build on Lacoumette land. If there’s a space that can be allotted to me for a house.”

Her eyes lit up and she was clearly excited. “For a family?”

He shook his head. “For me. Maybe someday there will be a family. But Mama, I still have wounds to heal, so not now please.”

“These wounds, Matt,” she said. “If you feed them too much they can heal on the outside and keep getting worse on the inside. Then you’re in trouble.”

His mother, who was not well educated in the traditional sense, knew all. “Yes, Mama. I’ll watch for that.”

“Paco will be so happy to give you your choice of land. Not too close to the house, eh? So we don’t see the hundreds of girls come and go?”

He laughed. He was going to change that, as well.

Then his brother and sister and their families started trooping in. George shook his hand and thanked him for the hundredth time for his help with the ewes. Ginny kissed and hugged him. Lori, George’s wife, did the same. The kids pretty much ignored him, as he was not an uncommon sight around here. Then Paco came in and gave him the traditional greeting, a hand on the shoulder and a swat on the cheek.

“Matt wants to build a house on the farm,” his mother said from the kitchen.

And Paco, surprised and clearly thrilled, grabbed his son and kissed him on each cheek. Then did so again. “There is a woman?” he asked.

“Just me, your bachelor son.”

“Good then. We’ll get you ready for a woman.”

* * *

It was about nine forty-five when Ginger’s cell phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number—it wasn’t a family member or Grace. She was in her room, reading. Ray Anne and Al were having a “date” up on Ray Anne’s private deck atop the garage. Ginger was committed to not getting anywhere near them. She was locked away so they could be alone. She wouldn’t even go to the kitchen; she did not want to hear moaning, panting or giggling.

Thinking it must be a wrong number, she answered uncertainly.

“Hi, Ginger. It’s Matt.”

“Matt?” she asked, sitting up on the bed. “Did I give you my number?”

He laughed. “You did not. I got it out of my sister and I had to swear I would be a perfect gentleman or she was going to do to me what we do to goats we’re not going to breed.”

“Ew.”

“Exactly. You tell her I was less than perfect and I’m a eunuch.”

She couldn’t help it, she laughed. “Gee, and Peyton seems so sweet.”

“Ha. Don’t let her fool you. She was the oldest of eight and could be mean as a rabid dog. She’d do unspeakable things to her younger brothers and sisters as long as there was no possibility she’d get caught.”

“You must have a reason for calling...”

“I do. Don’t think I’m a loser, okay? I had a really crazy week that ended pretty good and here I am, home, and have no one to talk to but my mother!”

“Your mother is there?” And she couldn’t help it, she thought red flag.

“No.” He laughed. “I had dinner at the farm, which I do a lot. There’s always plenty of good food and an unpredictable number of family members. And I talked to my mom for a while. But seriously, Ginger. A little chatting it up with Mom is not what I’m looking for and I remembered we had a pretty cordial conversation.”

“But what about Peyton?” she asked. “I bet you could talk to her anytime.”

“Peyton? The pregnant newlywed who threatened to castrate me?”

She settled back against her pillows. “Right. So what did you want to talk about?”

“My week was nuts. I was all over that farm and had to help George with shearing some ewes who came into season late and were just now ready for lambing and the fruit trees are budding early and had to be aerated around the roots and fertilized. Dirty work. And I had to teach a two-hour class at the college—I should give that up—it’s inconvenient. But it’s also dangerous. My ex was leaning against my truck when I came out of the building. She’s done this a few times—she wants to talk. I had to threaten her with campus security to get her to go away...”

“Oh, you didn’t!” she said. “Oh, Matt, she must be so desperate!”

“Well, that’s not what I wanted to talk about, but yes, she’s desperate. But why? I mean, we had that talk—we shouldn’t have gotten married and were not happy. We were worse than unhappy, we were miserable. But that’s not what I called about. I wanted to tell you something important.”

“Okay...”

“Shit,” he said. “I’m an idiot. This probably won’t be important to anyone but me. To me, it’s big. You’ll probably think it’s just dumb. Or a big nothing.”

“You’re so dramatic,” she said. “Just tell me.”

“I hate this little apartment I live in. It was my concession to Natalie. I’d be a farmer, but wouldn’t live on the farm. When we split up, I stayed here because she couldn’t afford it, but I hate it. I wasn’t cut out to live on top of other people. I can’t be happy without land. So I had this sudden epiphany and made a decision—I’m going to build a house on the farm. My father was so excited, he almost kissed me on the mouth! He wants to get together tomorrow to look at the land. George is the only other Lacoumette living on the farm and Paco is ecstatic. And guess what? I’m pretty excited, too. Of course I’m a year away from making the transition, but I just had to tell someone. I’m going to live in my favorite place.”

“You could live with your parents until your house is built,” she said.

“No, none of that,” he said, laughing. “I’m almost thirty. I’m not living with my parents. I do stay over when things are crazy at the farm, when we’re tracking possible bad weather at pear harvest or bringing in lambs or something that requires twenty-four-hour vigilance. But I need a little privacy, you know? But a house on the land...”

“The most beautiful place in the world,” she said.

“You think so?”

“I can’t imagine how much work it must be, but it’s incredibly beautiful...”

“Those pear trees don’t blossom year-round, you know.”

“It’s not just the blossoms, although just the scent is hypnotic. I love Portland in the spring when the fruit trees all over the city are in bloom! Everything about your farm is lovely—the house, the barn, the chickens...”

“The chickens?” he asked.

“I bet you take them for granted,” she said. “Fresh eggs in the morning...”

“Fresh chicken at night,” he added with a laugh.

“I hadn’t thought of that, but yes, I suppose...”

“Peyton hates killing chickens. My mother doesn’t like it, but she does it. If George is around the house she’ll send him to round up a few and she’ll cut them up and freeze them. She protects her best laying hens. It’s about time for her to hatch a bunch of eggs, replenish the henhouse—there’s an incubator in the barn.”

“I would love to see that, baby chicks,” Ginger said, a little breathless. “I don’t think I’d like killing them, either.”

“Maybe you’re just not a farm girl. Not everyone is. Peyton can do anything there is to do on the farm but she doesn’t like it. She’s funny, she loves the farm—she wants the fresh food, wants to snuggle the new lambs—but our Peyton, her majesty, does not shovel shit. She’s what we call a gentleman farmer—wants the land and animals, wants to pet the animals and eat the food, and other people have to do the work.”

“Can’t you be a farm girl and not like killing chickens?” she asked.

“The cycle of life is important on a farm,” he said. “You grow it, eat it, grow some more. We’re a commercial farm. It’s not just about fresh eggs for breakfast, it’s a business and has to support a lot of people. It has to support the land, too. We can’t deplete and not replenish or it will be a one-generation farm.” He paused and silence hung between them. “I’m sorry, I’m boring you.”

“No! No, you’re not. I’m really interested, believe it or not. I probably don’t have any intelligent questions to ask but I like hearing about it.”

“But you’d like to see the chicks or new lambs?” he asked.

She sighed. “I would love that. Maybe I’ll visit my parents on a weekend when that’s happening and I could come by the farm on my way back to Thunder Point. If that’s all right?”

“It would be great. You have to eat, however. No one comes to the farm without eating something.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose...”

“Didn’t you notice how much my family loves feeding people? Not everyone enjoys it, by the way, but it’s possible Scott married my sister for the food.”

“Tell me about the classes you teach.”

“I just guest lecture in the biology department. I usually talk about either plant biology or animal husbandry. I can lecture on the biology of the farm, the microbiology of soil. The students love talking about cloning and two-headed sheep. We’re making great progress as a biological as opposed to organic farm because we still use small amounts of chemicals and we immunize the sheep, but we’re cautious. We fertilize mostly with chicken manure, kill pests on the trees organically, stick to nature where we can.”

“Sure,” she said. “You have to take care of the fruit...”

“We have to protect the bees. If we kill the insects and the bees disappear, we’re doomed. The balance is delicate and the health of the plants and animals and consumers is... Am I putting you to sleep?”

“No!” she nearly shouted. “I never thought of farming as a science...”

“It is indeed a science. Paco is not a scientist but his experience and instincts are flawless. Everything he taught me holds up scientifically. Almost everything, at any rate. It is not true that if you put a statue of Saint Isidore the Farmer in the yard you will have a good crop year.”

“Is there a statue of the saint in the garden?”

“My mother has one in the garden, yes. Also Saint Maria and the Virgin. Not overwhelming in size, but obvious. And her garden is plentiful.”

They were quiet on the phone for a moment. “Matt? Why did you really call me?”

“Peyton asked the same question.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her there was a special bonding moment when I groped you and you knocked me out...”

She laughed almost uncontrollably for a moment.

“Really,” he said. “It’s because you felt like a friend. Strange as it might feel to you, I think we somehow became friends. I hope you’re okay with that.”

She smiled. “Everyone can use a friend.”

* * *

Ray Anne had a sweet little hideaway on top of the garage, a deck. From there she had a great view of storms rolling in over the bay. Or, when it wasn’t storming, just starlight so deep and wide it was otherworldly. She and Al dragged out the bean bag chairs, he had a beer and she had a glass of wine. They reclined together, talked about their week, he told her about the boys and she reported on Ginger, who seemed to be doing better all the time. They kissed and fondled and made sneaky love under a blanket, then talked some more. It was almost eleven when Al carried down the bean bags and blanket and Ray Anne carried her glass and his bottle. They stood in the kitchen for a moment, safe in each other’s arms, reluctant to say good-night.

There was a sound in the house, a soft lilting coming from the bedroom. They both froze to listen.

“Oh, God, that’s Ginger!” Ray Anne said. “She’s crying!” She turned to go to her.

Al grabbed her hand, stopping her. “Ray,” he whispered. “Listen!”

She froze and listened. With their arms around each other’s waists, they moved closer to the bedroom door.

“She’s laughing,” Ray Anne whispered. “She’s talking on the phone and laughing!”

Al smiled down at her. “I don’t think she needs rescuing.”

“Who in the world is she talking to? Laughing with?”

“Maybe if you’re very sneaky, you can worm it out of her.”