Breakaway (A Gail McCarthy Mystery) (7 page)

"So, how are things going at the boarding stable?" I asked.

"Pretty much the same as usual. Bart's always got some new problem." Clay began to recount his brother's latest horse-training saga; I listened with half my brain. The other half was roaming around the restaurant, watching Caroline tend bar, checking out the various patrons.

Several women dressed in glamorous, big-city clothes sat together, laughing and talking. A blond girl in a white blouse and a silver-haired man, obviously a couple, leaned toward each other at the bar. A good sprinkling of single men, most of whom looked like young stockbroker types-a few of these were chatting in a desultory way.

As usual, and despite my overall mood, I found myself intrigued by watching people. The little details of face, hair, and clothing, the small nuances of how each chose to present him-or herself, were endlessly fascinating. And a bar was the perfect venue.

"I know. But I think it's true. People used to go out in the evening, have a drink with their neighbors, pass the time of day in a social way. Now they stay home and stare at that stupid machine, which proceeds to mold their thought processes into a conventional pattern. It's a double evil."

"You think going out drinking is better?"

"Yes, 1 do," I said firmly. "Though it would be good if people walked or rode their bikes to the pub, like they would in a village."

"Or their horses," Clay added.

"That's right. I think having a drink and talking to people is a good thing, it's a slice of real life. It's," I stumbled a little, "it's living your life instead of absorbing this vicarious experience someone else has orchestrated. I think TV is terrible for people's minds. What they find attractive, what they want, how they look at the world, is all ordained by what they see on the stupid TV." I laughed. "I know I'm ranting on about this; it's a pet peeve."

''I'm surprised you don't have a 'Kill Your TV' bumper sticker on your truck," Clay teased.

"I would if I were the bumper sticker-type. I don't have a TV, I've never had one, so I never got to kill it."

Clay was smiling at me as if he thought I was amusing; I decided to put the ball in his court. "How about you? Do you have a TV? Do you watch it?"

"I guess I'd better watch my step here." Despite his words, Clay sounded relaxed and confident, unworried by my peccadilloes. "Yeah, I've got a TV. I watch it. I like the news; I like to rent movies, watch the occasional sporting event. That's about it."

"Well," I said, feeling mollified, "I do understand why people have them, but I still think the world would be a better place without TV."

"What do you do in the evenings when you're home alone?" Clay asked curiously.

"Read a book, play music, send e-mail," I replied promptly. Brave words. These days I mostly laid on the couch and stared at the wall.

"So why is the computer so different from a TV?" Clay asked.

"It's interactive. You have to use your mind." I was beginning to feel I'd gone on about this subject long enough. My drink was finished. "Are you hungry?" I asked Clay.

Clay had reserved a table for two in the corner, I found, and we were waited on by the owner of the place. The food was excellent, the wine also. Clay kept the conversation going smoothly. As we drove home, I reflected that it had been what you might call a perfect evening. My pager never even went off.

So, why then this sense of inner malaise, this apathetic distress?

When Clay pulled up in front of my house, I readied myself for the inevitable kiss. Not that I dreaded it. I just didn't feel much of anything about it, one way or the other. But instead of putting his arm around me, Clay sat quietly behind the steering wheel, looking through the windshield at my door. "How about a cup of coffee?" he said.

Uh-oh. A cup of coffee after a date ... even I knew this was code for, "Would you like to go to bed?" And I was not, by any means, up for that.

"I'm sorry, Clay," I said. "I'm tired." Honesty compelled me to add, "It's not that I don't like spending time with you. But I'm not sure I'm ready for anything else."

Clay absorbed this without a flinch. Then he did put his arm around me. "How about a good-night kiss?"

I kissed him willingly enough; his mouth felt soft and warm. As I started to climb out of the truck, he took my hand and held me back a moment.

Regulation words, but true enough. I shut the truck door and waved; Clay started the engine. In a minute he was gone. I stood on my porch, alone, wondering what possessed me. Why didn't I want to have a little fun with Clay?

Roey yapped at me from the dog pen. I let her out, then went to the barn and fed the horses and the cow. Then the dog and cat got their dinners, and at last, I could peel my clothes off and climb into bed.

Lying there, all alone in the dark, I could feel tears on my cheeks. Why was I crying? I didn't know, exactly. Just this endless sadness.

You have got to get some help with this; it was the last thought I had before sleep blotted everything out.

SIX

I awoke to sunlight and the sound of my banty rooster crowing. The sun poured into my bedroom through the uncurtained window facing east, spreading butter-colored patches over the cream of the walls and bedspread. The little rooster's slightly hoarse crow was as cheerful as the light.

Jack, the rooster, was somewhat unreliable as an alarm clock. He was apt to crow at two in the morning, or, as now, when the sun was already well above the horizon. I had no idea what went on in his tiny brain, but I liked his cocky crowing, and the sight of him and his mate, Red, pecking around the barnyard.

Looking out the window, I could see unfettered blue sky, for once. Inexplicably, the fog had vanished. Suddenly I wanted to get up.

All the morning chores were more pleasant in the summer sunlight. Rich red tints gleamed in the mahogany floor as I carried my cup of coffee onto the porch. Roses nodded brightly on the grape stake fence around the vegetable garden. This morning, I thought, I'll tie them in.

Contemplation of the day ahead brought an immediate wave of disconcerting disinterest. Chronic depression was such a boring thing, so damn repetitive. Once again, for reasons I didn't understand, the wheel was taking me back down. One minute I was reaching out in tentative enjoyment toward the sunny morning, the next I felt like going back to bed.

Forcing myself to my feet, I took my coffee down the hill and fed the horses and the cow. Then I walked around the vegetable garden, surveying the roses, trying to see them truly through my disenchanted haze. How beautiful they were, with their seductive subtle shades, romantic associations, and long history. Madame Alfred, a cream-colored flower just flushed with warm coral, tangled with the apricot Lady Hillingdon. Buff-yellow Reve d'Or wound its way through the more intensely copper Crepuscule. Roses had become a passion of mine in the last year. I longed for them to lift my heart as they had once been able to do.

Roses made me think of Blue Winter, who grew them for a living. I had promised myself I'd go out to the rose farm this morning. For lack of any excuse not to, I decided to follow through on it.

I tied the Tea roses into the fence and weeded the tomatoes. Then I poured another cup of coffee and thought about getting dressed. I could hardly go traipsing out to the rose farm wearing my battered sweats.

Wear something sexy; I could hear Kris's voice in my head. Shutting it out, I chose jeans and a white tank top with just a little lace trim. A denim shirt worn open as a jacket, and my hair woven back into a French braid, and I was done. I had met Blue Winter on a pack trip last summer; he probably wouldn't recognize me out of jeans.

Driving toward Watsonville, I wondered what I'd say to the man. That is, if I even saw him. My last trip out here hadn't been very productive. Blue had been too busy to say much more than hello.

But today was Sunday. Surely if Blue was around at all, he'd be a little more free.

Why, just why, was I doing this? I felt like a teenager with a crush, not my favorite feeling. Clay Bishop was pursuing me avidly enough. What did I need with the apparently uninterested Blue Winter?

Who knew? He appealed to me. And what do you have to lose, my mind said in a detached tone. Nothing much. By now I was pulling into the rose farm driveway, feeling like a complete fool. I wasn't exactly sure what I was here for.

To look at roses, I assured myself. You like roses. I could see the display garden up ahead, roses draped everywhere, the big, vigorous vines and shrubs splashed with the vivid colors of the blossoms. Crimson, magenta, gold, pink ... mingling in somehow harmonious profusion. I could smell the heady scent all the way from the parking lot.

Beyond the garden were the greenhouses, where the roses for sale were grown. And beyond the greenhouses, somewhere out of sight, was the trailer where Blue Winter lived.

I had never seen Blue's home, but he'd told me once he lived "out back." I stared around. At the moment, I didn't see anyone. The sign in front said the place was open. Next to the garden, a small office building sat quiet; no hints of life visible there. I got out of my truck and walked toward the garden.

Inside the gate, the roses invited me. Each one different from the others, as unique and individual as a horse, or a person. Here was the exquisitely formal cream-colored Madame Hardy, grown by the Empress Josephine. I bent to smell a blossom. This rose, this very plant, since roses are propagated by cuttings, had pleased Napoleon's lover.

A darkly golden rose with a mandarin-orange blush caught my eye and I stopped to search for the name tag.

"Lady Fortviot."

I looked up. Blue Winter stood on the other side of the fence, looking down at me from his six-and-a-half feet. "I saw you drive in," he said. The dog by his side wagged her tail.

Caught by surprise, I gaped up at him, at a loss for words. This tall, redheaded man appeared, as he had the entire time I'd known him, quietly composed. His steady gray eyes watched me thoughtfully from under the brim of a fedora hat. I couldn't tell if he was glad to see me or not.

His spotted dog, on the other hand, greeted me with more tail wags and a curvaceous little wiggle. Everything about her, from the ingratiatingly laid-back ears to the wildly waving white tail said that she, at least, was happy to find me here.

"Hi Freckles," I said. "Hi, Blue."

Another few seconds of quiet, and he seemed to sense my discomfiture. "Would you like a tour?" he asked me.

"Sure." What was it about this guy that rendered me so awkwardly tongue-tied? Some quality of inner stillness that he had made normal chitchat seem frivolous.

Whatever it was, I followed him about the rose garden more or less mutely, listening to his descriptions of the roses and asking occasional questions, the dog trailing in our wake. He took me through the greenhouses and explained the growing operation, showed me the shade houses with the retractable roof where the young plants were acclimatized. When we were done, he asked, "Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"Sure," I said, expecting to be led toward the office. To my surprise, he headed off in the other direction; I almost had to trot to keep up with his long, loping stride.

In a minute we emerged from behind the last greenhouse into an open field on the edge of a bluff. An unobstructed view out over the Monterey Bay rendered the grassy slope dramatic. In the foreground was a travel trailer under a small tin-roofed pole barn, the whole structure almost smothered with an exuberant wealth of climbing roses. Two wooden chairs sat outside the trailer door, under an arbor draped with rose vines. I stopped short with a smile. "Is this where you live?"

"Yes."

I could see corrals out back, with horses in them. One big dun gelding and one small sorrel mare. I recognized them from last summer's pack trip, Dunny and Little Witch. Blue was leading me toward the trailer. I followed him through the door.

Once again, I could feel a smile breaking out on my face. The trailer was old and the interior looked like the cabin of a boat, the walls and ceiling paneled in warm teak-colored wood. It was windowed on all sides and full of light. A couch, an old-fashioned desk in one corner with a computer on it, and a stout armchair were the only furniture. Blue walked into the minuscule kitchen and began making coffee.

"I'd like to." Blue smiled, showing crooked teeth and that unexpected sweetness I'd felt when I'd gotten to know him last year. I was reminded of the reason for my visit.

I watched his graceful hands as he poured the grounds into the filter, remembering the slender wrists, the red-gold hairs like fine copper wire on the long forearms. The surprising delicacy in such a big man. Artist's hands, I thought.