Patterns of Swallows (40 page)

"Wha'd'you mean?"

"I mean, maybe I'm not
capable of appreciating ... someone like you. Maybe I was drawn to
Graham because of his weakness. Maybe I felt like he needed me, and
I need to be needed. But whatever the reason, please believe me when
I tell you that I don't believe I'll ever love anyone again. Not
like I loved Graham. And that wouldn't be fair to you."

"I know it's too soon ..."

"It's not that it's too
soon," she half shouted. "I mean it is, but that's not the
point. I don't feel ... I don't feel for you the way you feel for
me, Bo. I never will. That part of me is dead. It died with
Graham. And even if I hadn't known Graham, I ... I don't think I
would have ... that I would have seen you in that way. You've always
been a good friend. But I've never thought of you as anything else.
I don't think I could. I'm so sorry. I don't know why it is. I
want you to believe me when I tell you that I know you're far too
good for me, and I'll always think of your caring for me as one of
the finest compliments I could ever receive. You are a wonderful
man, and you'll be a wonderful man for the right woman, but she isn't
me. I envy her. I almost wish she could be me, but she just isn't.
You know me, Bo. You know I don't say things I don't mean. And I
know my mind. It doesn't change easily. Believe me, I wish I could
have given you a different answer."

Ruth was near crying from
earnestness by the time she finished this long speech. It was
vitally important to her that Bo understand how strongly she meant
every word she said. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt her
old friend – her good friend. If only he could realize how
sincerely she valued him as a person and a friend. Maybe it would
help. Maybe it wouldn't.

Yet it was just as important
that he realize how sincere she was about not ever being able to see
him in any light other than that of a highly valued friend.

"Thank you," Bo said
at last. "I mean that. I'm not saying it sarcastically. I do
understand. You were right not to leave me living in foolish hope.
Well, I don't think there's any point trying to work on the books
anymore tonight. C'mon. I'll take you home."

She'd fallen into the habit of
letting Bo drive her to and from the packing shed on their evenings
of working together, a habit she deeply regretted that night.

The silence in the pickup was
unbearable. And yet, there was nothing to be said. She'd said it
all, and so had he. Neither of them were capable of small talk at
the best of times, and tonight was not the best of times.

As he pulled into her driveway,
Bo said, "Ruth, there's something I want you to think about. I
may not have the right to say this; it may make you angry, but I feel
I should say it, anyways. I believe you mean what you say where your
feelings for me are concerned. I may be a conceited dog; I was
conceited enough to hope you might return my feelings someday. But
now that I know where I stand, I'm not conceited enough to think that
your feelings will change. Anything I may have hoped on that front
is finished, and I know it. So, know that what I'm about to say has
no bearing on me personally, but it may have bearing on you someday.
I just have to say that I hope you'll never make decisions out of
fear. I mean, because of what you went through with Graham, now
you're convinced you'll never love anyone again, but could it be
you've decided that out of fear? Just don't close yourself off to
the possibility of loving again, will you? That's all I'm asking.
And as I told you, I'm not asking that for myself. You have my word
on it. I'll never open that subject again. That will be a closed,
sealed, shut, and locked book as far as I'm concerned. I don't want
you ever to be uncomfortable with me, afraid that I'm going to start
bothering you again. And I'll try not to let tonight affect our
friendship. I know you're one to say what you mean, so I'll believe
you when you say that you appreciate my friendship, and I'll go on
offering it."

"Bo,
you are truly ... you are, well, you are a prize. Don't worry that
I'd be angry about what you asked me about being afraid to love
again. You're only proving that you meant what you said about going
on being my friend. All the drive home, I've been sitting here
thinking about the possibility that I have made a mistake and that
what I think is, well, is not caring for you in
that
way is really fear. But I don't think so. That's the conclusion
I've come to. I don't think I've decided this out of fear. But I
will think about what you asked me, and as best as I can, I'll try
not to, out of fear, to close myself off to loving again. I know
you're right about that. I am afraid. I admit it. And I can't
imagine loving anyone again. I can't imagine remarrying. I don't
know if that's fear or just, plain stubbornness." Ruth flashed
him a smile. "But maybe someday ... I'll try to leave myself
open to the possibility of falling for someone again someday. Even
if I can't imagine it now."

The truck had stopped at the
door. Their eyes met briefly as she said good-night and opened the
pickup door. The look in Bo's brown eyes was a knife to the heart.
Why did Bo have to have sadly, hopeful, brown eyes, too? Did every
man who ever fell for her have to remind her of Joshua Bella? Would
there be any end to this constant hurting and being hurt? The whole
song and dance about the wonder of falling in love that invaded every
movie and every book and every life – was there ever anything
else to it other than hurting and being hurt?

She
was suddenly tired to death of it all. Her promise to Bo
notwithstanding, she hoped with all her heart that this was the end
of it. If a man
never
took any notice of her again, it would be too soon. She went inside
the house, sure that Mom would read the night's events on her face
like the headlines of a newspaper.

The
pale, sickly sun, finally making an appearance from behind the cloud
coverage, was growing dangerously near the tops of the mountains in
the west. It would soon be quitting time.

She
had to get that last quarter of a bin finished. She had the next
month's budget worked out around the amount she'd earn if she could
consistently keep up her four-bin-a-day habit till the end of the
apple-picking season. And, being the last week of October, that end
was just around the corner.

So
far, she'd attained her goal every day easily. But today had been a
harder day. The trees were older and taller. The apples were a
variety that clung to the tree for dear life. And it had been
misting all day off and on. Not quite raining enough to quit picking
but enough to soak through her wool sweater. In short, it had been a
miserable day for picking.

Maybe
she could stay on for a half hour or so after the rest of the crew
quit. After all, she wasn't being paid by the hour. It shouldn't
matter if she worked a little later than the rest.

And
it would help if she didn't have to move the ladder so often. If she
just climbed a little higher, used the top rung of the ladder, and
stretched as far as she could reach ... Or if she took less time
setting the ladder.

She
was too high on the ladder to feel comfortable (she'd never entirely
conquered her well-earned fear of heights from her experience at
eleven years old), but she ignored her discomfort and stretched as
far as she could go. The sodden wood of the ladder rung was
slippery, and the ladder wasn't set well. Her foot slid on the rung
and threw the ladder off balance. She could feel it going out from
under her.

Normally
not a screamer, she shrieked – just one, quick, sharp yelp.
The ladder clattered to the ground. She managed to catch a branch
with both hands and hang for a second or two, knowing she'd have to
let go and drop, hoping for the best.

She
released the death grip she had on the branch and hit the ground
feet-first, twisting an ankle slightly, then rolling to bear the
brunt of her falling weight. The ankle smarted. But not badly, she
thought, relieved. She inspected herself for any other damage and
found a tear in the calf of her jeans and a fairly deep gouge in her
leg where a branch had tried to catch her on the way down. Not deep
enough for stitches. All in all, she'd come out not too badly.

But
she was shaken. She'd have to get back on the ladder eventually, but
she needed a minute or two to sit and recover her nerve.

Bo
was at her side in under a minute.

"I
heard you fall," he said, not wasting words. "Where are
you hurt?"

"I'm
not," Ruth said. "Not really. I twisted my ankle, just a
little. And I tore my leg up a bit. Not bad, though. I'm fine,
really."

"Which
ankle? Let's see it. I have first aid," Bo said.

"The
left. It's fine. Honest! Here." She got up and walked a few
steps on it without wincing."

Bo
examined it. "Stay off of it till I see if it's gonna swell.
It's good you can put weight on it, but might be a little sprained."

"No,
I don't think so. I wouldn't worry."

"I'll
go get a wrap for it."

"No,
honestly. It doesn't need one. I might need something for the
scratch on my leg, though. It's bleeding a bit."

Bo
inspected her calf next.

"C'mon.
Leave the ladder and the bag. I can come back for it. Let's get
you to the pickers' shack where I can disinfect that cut and bandage
it. It's a pretty good little nick, all right."

"I
can do it later. You're fussing too much. I've got to keep going
and get this bin finished."

"Close
enough to quitting time. You can call it a day, I'd say. Besides, I
don't want you back on the ladder today. You look whiter than you
should be. I think you're more shaken up than you're letting on.
C'mon, let's get you fixed up, and then I'll drive you home. Did you
bicycle today?"

"No,
I drove the car. It looked like rain this morning."

"Okay,
well, I wanna drive you home, make sure you're all right. You can
leave the car. I'll swing by for you in the morning if you feel up
to picking tomorrow."

"If
I feel up to picking tomorrow? Pooh! I feel up to picking right
now! I'm feeling much better. I just needed to sit for a bit. And
I think the bleeding's stopped. I'll look after the scrape when I
get home. I really want to keep going. I hate to leave this bin
half-finished. And I can certainly drive myself home. What d'you
think I'm made of?"

"I
know what you're made of; that's the problem. I know you don't look
after yourself. Someone needs to. And forget about that bin. If
you're worried about not getting your fourth bin today, you can stop
worrying. Far as I'm concerned, I'm calling it a full bin and
driving you home."

"But
that bin's nowhere near full. Maybe three-quarters. I do need that
fourth bin today."

"Hey,
who's the boss here? You or me? I say it's a full bin, and I say
the day's over, and I say I'm driving you. You can't see how pale
you are right now. So c'mon. Get in the pickup. Don't make me
carry you, kicking and screaming, because I think that would
embarrass you more than me."

Bo
was laughing when he said it, but there was a definite note of
no-nonsense in his tone. Ruth was afraid for a moment that he'd
carry out his threat if she resisted any further. She got up and
followed him meekly.

*
* *

After
a quick soak in a hot tub, she felt like herself again.

The
three-quarters-f bin weighed on her conscience. It wasn't like Bo
to do anything dishonest, so it must have been all right for him to
insist on counting her bin as full. Wasn't it?

But
she knew it wasn't a full bin. If it was dishonest, it wasn't only
her own dishonesty niggling away in the back of her conscience. It
was Bo's. And that was almost worse. Of course, he was doing it to
help her out. And that was the problem. He shouldn't have to be
dishonest to help her out.

The
stickiness of the situation continued to bother her as she dressed
and combed her damp hair.

It
wasn't really dark yet. It was only heading toward twilight. If she
hopped on the bike, she could be back in the orchard in five minutes.
If she picked till she couldn't see anymore, she might be able to
fill the bin. At least it would be closer to full than it was right
now. That is, if Bo hadn't already had it loaded onto the truck to
take to the packing shed. But it was worth a try.