Authors: Lynne Spreen
“Yes, we are.” Curt said, lifting two champagne flutes from a passing tray and handing one to Karen. She took a sip, blushing, the bubbles tickling down her throat and warming her empty stomach. “You look beautiful,” he murmured in her ear, and she felt it. Her pheromones must be flooding the room, so powerfully sexual did she feel in this dress and these shoes. Yet another part of her mind felt awkward, embarrassed at the fact that this was her first date in decades, and she was still married.
But it was just dinner and dancing. She smiled back. Did he have any idea how good he looked in that tux? As the room filled, they found opportunities to stand closer, and his fingers grasped hers and kept them.
Marlene linked arms with Karen. “Curt, the guys are out on the terrace. We’ll see you later.” The two women promenaded through the crowd, most of them in fancy new tuxedoes and cocktail gowns. An older woman in a floral pantsuit stuck close by her husband, who wore cowboy boots and a polyester suit.
“New oil. They still don’t know quite how to spend the money.” Marlene led Karen through an arched hallway into the east wing, which had been transformed into a gallery. A knot of people stood at the foot of a tall metal sculpture, a windblown cowboy on a scrap metal horse. “There’s Glenda. Her husband is the artist.”
Glenda, statuesque in a classic Grecian gown, stood near the sculpture.
“It’s haunting,” said Karen.
“Dave was born a century too late,” said Glenda. “He sculpts scenes from the late eighteen-hundreds. By the way, you two look amazing.”
“We’re more than amazing. We’re hot,” said Denise, appearing in a vintage cocktail dress, sky-high heels, and a camera around her neck. “The guys are outside trying to regain their composure.”
“The works are all by local artists.” Glenda led the women to a watercolor depicting a sunshine-yellow canola field bounded by rolling green hills. One of the hills was topped by a rusting combine.
“I had forgotten about these,” said Karen. “When I was a little girl they reminded me of big metal insects.”
“I used to think it was kind of a sin, environmentally,” said Denise, “but now I see it as folk art. And what else are you going to do with them?” She squinted at the signature. “I know this guy. He was a security guard and started painting when he retired. That other one is his, too.”
Karen studied the remains of an old barn and windmill. “I can’t get over how artistic the people are around here.”
“There isn’t much else to do during our long, cold winters,” said Denise.
“Not true,” said Curt, coming up behind Karen. He grasped her bare shoulders, and his touch left her skin burning. “Come on. We’re being seated.”
Karen’s spot was in front of a place card that said, “Dr. Hoffman Guest.” She reached for a brochure which read,
Like Oil and Water? The Future of Commerce and Ecology on the High Plains
. “Very impressive, Dr. Hoffman.”
He kissed her fingertips, smiling. “The balloon guy cancelled.”
At dinner they feasted on herb-stuffed tenderloin in a chardonnay sauce. Karen had expected rubber chicken, mashed potatoes, and something greenish. When the empty plates were replaced by tiramisu and coffee, the MC stepped up to the podium. He thanked the organizers, told a good joke, and then introduced Curt.
“Save my seat.” Curt folded his napkin and strode to the podium, tall and handsome in formal attire. He spoke of the difficulty of reconciling energy and conservation, and the creative solutions that were emerging. She saw people scribbling notes on the backs of programs. When he returned to his seat, she applauded not just for him but for the festival and her new friends. They were smart, curious, and ambitious, exactly the kind of people with whom she would surround herself if possible.
But as the applause faded, so did her good mood. Home was California, and as appealing as the new Dickinson appeared, she didn’t fit in anymore. Life was different on the West Coast. Although it was in some ways harsher, she had learned to thrive there and no longer questioned its requirements.
On the dais, the MC had given the podium over to the governor of North Dakota. A compact man, he stood before them, his eyes piercing behind wire-rimmed glasses. When the crowd fell silent, he gestured toward the exhibits in the far wing.
“Ladies and gentlemen, who knew that right here in our midst we have such a rich diversity of artists? Such talented and heartfelt people–doesn’t it make you proud?” He held up a sheaf of papers. “I brought some notes about the economy and such, but after I walked through the east wing, it didn’t seem relevant.
“Tonight, as I was getting ready to come here, I raced out the door, my mind on work. You all know how that is, don’t you? We rush through our days, and sometimes we forget the important things.” He gazed over the heads of his listeners. “We forget who we really are, and where we come from. But tonight, I’m remembering, and I owe that to the artists.”
Karen thought of the paintings she had seen before dinner, especially that of the broken-down windmill and barn, and she imagined the wind tearing through the abandoned structure. Now that things were hopping in Dickinson again, how would the artist deal with his or her memories? What did he see when he stood at the edge of his old farm?
The governor’s voice cut through her thoughts. “…they worked from dawn to dusk farming rocks. It was their life plan. The Germans who immigrated here from the Banat region in Europe had a saying: ‘To the first generation is death; to the second, hardship; to the third, success.’ May we justify their sacrifice and fulfill their dreams.”
Karen saw she was not the only one at the table who was moved. “I wish I could meet him,” she said.
“Follow me.” Curt led the way to the front of the room, pushing through a throng of admirers. The governor turned. “Dr. H.”
“I’d like you to meet Karen Grace. She’s a Weiler, from Dickinson, although lately of California.”
“Welcome back.” The governor took her hand. “I hope the professor is extending plenty of North Dakota hospitality.”
“He definitely is. In fact, we played a round of golf yesterday at the Bully Pulpit.”
“Beautiful place. I wish I had more time for that.” He guided them to a semi-private corner. “What brings you back home, Karen?”
“I’m visiting family.”
“The best of reasons.” He signaled the photographer. “Let’s get a picture of the three of us. Give me your email address and I’ll have a copy sent to you.”
Karen handed her card to the governor.
“Human Resources? My goodness, the eighth circle of hell.”
She laughed. “It can be.”
“I’ll tell you, Karen, I have this assistant who’s driving us all crazy. I mean, he is talented but moody, and if he’s having a bad day, it’s all over with for the rest of us–wait a second. I’m sorry. We shouldn’t be working.”
She took the card back and scribbled her cell number on it. “I’ll be here for a few more days if you want to talk.”
“Just a few? Too bad for North Dakota.” The governor’s aide pulled him away and Karen followed Curt out to the terrace. The early June evening had already turned cool and he placed his jacket over her shoulders.
She leaned against him and they watched the red of sunset fade to purple dusk. The terraced grounds sloped downhill and away from the great hall, which loomed over the campus commons. In the distance, the carillon tower chimed eight o’clock.
Curt turned her around to face him. With his fingertips, he traced the line of her jaw from her earlobe to her chin, and Karen felt shocked, and then her resolve slipped. She lifted her chin and their lips touched, gently at first, then with more urgency. Her nerve endings tingled all along her spine as she tasted him, exploring the softness of his lips, drawing his tongue into her mouth. When she released him, she heard him exhale and felt his strong arms pull her close.
“You don’t have to go back,” he said.
“But I do.” They kissed again, longer this time, pressing the length of their bodies together, breathing together.
The ballroom door flew open and Denise laughed. “Oh, my goodness. Well, too late now. Hey, you two, the band’s starting.”
They went inside where music made conversation impossible. It didn’t matter. He pulled her onto the crowded dance floor and they swayed together, alone inside the swirling, noisy crowd. She moved with him, her eyes half-closed, feeling the longing in his touch. Being wanted was the ultimate aphrodisiac, and she imagined his bare skin against her own from lip to ankle.
She leaned back, rocking in his arms. He looked up at the ceiling, then back at her. Then he took her by the hand.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Hell with this. I’m taking you home.”
.
T
hey writhed and tore at the sheets until the candles guttered out and the old farmhouse groaned with exhaustion. When they slowed to catch their breath, they heard the yip and howl of coyotes hard at a meal and went at each other again, until her skin was raw and his was scratched. And still they feasted.
In the morning, a meadowlark sang Karen awake from its perch just outside the second-story window. Clothing was scattered across the braided rug and flung over a ladderback chair. Careful, not wanting to wake him, she rolled over and studied his face, pure in sleep. A small white scar, now almost hidden by stubble, cut across his jaw. She longed to trace the lines between his charcoal-grey eyebrows and kiss the crinkles at the corners of his eyes.
A breeze drifted across the room, in one window and out another, and Curt sighed. In the light of the morning she remembered everything they had done to and for each other, and smiled to think how beautifully her body had performed. Last night was madness–fabulous, soft, hot, wet insanity.
When his eyes opened she gasped in surprise and laughed, and he pulled her toward him, back to front. They lay like spoons, his voice deep against her ear. “You stayed.”
“Should I have played hard to get?” she teased, but when the silence stretched, she felt stupid for asking.
“I’d have no defense,” he said sleepily, and tightened his arms around her.
An hour later, she awoke to his warm hand sliding up her thigh and across her belly, and she tensed, remembering all those Midwestern meals she’d enjoyed of late. But when his fingers cupped her breast as if holding a baby bird and gently squeezed her nipple, she stopped thinking.
In the shower he soaped her up and down, made her sudsy and sleek and then leaned her against the warm tile and kissed her so deeply she couldn’t feel her legs. When she opened her eyes, he turned her around and rinsed her off in the multiple jets, and she stood still and let him.
When the hot water started to run out, they dried each other off. He handed her a terrycloth robe from his closet and pulled on a pair of jeans and a U.N.D. tee shirt.
“Breakfast?”
“Starved.”
Downstairs, she detoured into his office to check her email. While the computer booted, she studied her surroundings, trying to get a sense of him.
The room was furnished in Early Cattle Baron, with chocolate leather wingchairs and a pelt of some kind draped across the back of the sofa. A lariat hung on the wall next to a painting of two elk challenging each other in an evening meadow. A dented red lantern, its chimney cracked, perched on the edge of a book case. Yet in spite of his penchant for rustic and rugged, the room hummed with electronics, some of them so new Karen felt jealous. On a shelf above the desk stood a framed picture of a young girl on a horse. Her dark eyes and straight brows left no doubt as to who her daddy was.
When the website came up, Karen entered her login name and employee password and waited. The computer beeped, the login failing twice, but she felt only mild frustration. Wes often scheduled maintenance for the weekends. Next, she called her corporate voicemail, but there were no new messages. No news was good news. Karen stretched, reaching for the ceiling in a delightful shiver. Later in the day she would call Peggy at home. Right now, though, she was hungry.
The aroma of bacon lured her into the kitchen, where Curt whistled an off-key tune while scrambling eggs. “Find anything interesting in there?”
“Your daughter’s picture.”
“That’s Erin. She just finished her first semester at Florida State.”
Karen sat in a chair by the window. Outside, a weeping willow draped the front lawn and red climbing roses laced a fence along the driveway. “Is she coming home for the summer?”
“Nope. She told me she wanted to stick around for the summer session, but I think it’s more about a boy with a boat.”
“And her mother?”
Curt turned off the flame. “She got tired of Dickinson a long time ago. I raised Erin.”
“That’s rough.”
He piled eggs and hash browns onto their plates. “It was a privilege.”
When they finished, Curt took Karen out to the barn to see the baby. “She’s three weeks old,” he said, letting the foal nibble his fingertips. “Her mom needs a break. Do you ride? My neighbor’s got a nice old gelding we can borrow.”
Karen petted the mare’s soft neck. “I used to, but I got thrown, and right afterwards I read a horse isn’t much smarter than a chicken, so I never got back on.”
“I’ll get you back on.” He grasped her by the robe’s belt and kissed her.
“I believe you,” she said when she could breathe again.
“When are you going back?”
“Day after tomorrow.” She touched the foal’s nose, a perfect velvet miniature of his mother’s.
“What a drag.” Curt left the horses and crossed the barn to the far wall. He sat down on a hay bale and patted the spot next to him. “Come tell me about your life there. Where you live, and about your work.”
She clomped over in his big flip-flops, sat down and told him about it, how human resources had started out as something beautiful and promising and then turned into triage, but still she loved it. She talked of the energy and diversity of California, of desert and farmland and coastline and rainforest, of art and music and commerce.
When she paused for a breath, she remembered the time and grabbed his wrist. “I was supposed to go to church with Aunt Marie. She’s probably called the police by now.”