Текст книги "Illusion"

Автор книги: Фрэнк Перетти

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“So … in that case the hospital would not be looking for the individual?”

“Looking … ?”

“They wouldn’t send people out to find and apprehend the person, sedate them, and bring them back?”

Her face fell. “Oh, dear.” He could read the incredulity, even dismay, in her face. “No. That’s not … the hospital would not do that. If anything, they would contact the police, and that’s only if the original hold was still in force.”

“They wouldn’t send two men in an SUV with a taser and a hypodermic—”

She winced. Her fingers went to her forehead. “Ohhh, Mandy …”

For Dane, all forward motion stopped. His next thought went on hold. Did she say … ? “Excuse me?”

She recovered and told him, “I hope you realize that some people live in a different world than ours.”

He steeled himself, drew on any stagecraft he could muster to look normal, and said, “Mandy can be that way.”

She signaled him with a slight raise of her hand. “Could we forget I used her name?”

chapter

23

It was the classic bottle-and-glass routine. The Hobett started out with a glass and a wine bottle on a table and two tubes to slip over them. “Tube one goes over the glass, tube number two goes over the bottle.” When she lifted the tubes away, “The bottle has become a glass and the glass has become a bottle.” She replaced the tubes, lifted them away again, and the bottle and glass had traded places again. “So you see, you just—oops!” A second bottle appeared from a tube that should have been empty, and from there the trick was on the Hobett as more bottles appeared from the tubes until eight bottles cluttered the table. She played it all for laughs and got plenty, mugging and intentionally fumbling, the unwitting foil through the whole routine.

Her twist on the routine was when she lined up the eight bottles, blew across their openings to produce a musical scale, and then made them sing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” simply by waving her fingers at them. As the bottles ended the song in four-part harmony, she slipped a tube over each one and made it vanish until the last bottle, singing the highest note, disappeared into the tube and went silent. She held up the tube, looked at the audience through it, then put her arm through it, showing it to be empty. Great finish.

Dane was one of four folks sharing a table just one row back, and he wouldn’t have gotten that seat without a reservation. Every table in McCaffee’s was full, and there were folks sitting in chairs anywhere the chairs would fit. Whatever the room’s maximum legal occupancy, they had to have reached it.

Roger Calhoun must have been doing well enough to spare a little change. Eloise now had a small stage and backdrop to work from, some spotlights, and some additional recorded background music, something between Sinatra saloon and hip elevator.

Ifhe were her coach and mentor, Dane could have addressed a few weaknesses in the performance, mainly in the timing of her reactions—just a shade too soon, as if she knew what was going to happen—and in her body placement—sometimes she held the bottles and other objects too high, blocking her face; sometimes she played things too open, where a slight turn of her body would withhold a reveal and increase the surprise. These were small details, easy to fix. Overall, her pacing was just about right and she was connecting with the audience, making eye contact, pulling them in. The wonder, the delight in every little event were still there. She was a natural.

Just like Mandy.

Oh, yes. He always came back to that. Much as he tried to watch only her performance, he couldn’t help but watch her.Much as he tried to see Eloise, with every turn of her head, every tease in her eyes, every playful smile, he was seeing memories. He tried again and again to blame it on grief, denial, delusion, fantasy, even coincidence, but such explanations were tiresome and easily trumped by what he’d heard today: her name coming from the lips of a total stranger. Unless he imagined that as well, the supposed “delusion” now existed outside his mind, in the real world, which only restirred the aggravating madness of it all.

And what in the world could he tell her? As much as he wanted to share his meeting with Bernadette Nolan and alleviate her fears, the good news came with questions, and the answers could make things worse.

Well, he would step carefully, but he had to go there.

She was winding up her show, starting the levitation. Some of the folks had seen it before and were shooting sideways glances at the friends they’d brought: This is it. This is what I told you about.Dane was interested in how she would sell it. Was the wonder still there? Was it still an adventure for her as much as for the audience?

Her feet came off the floor, and the crowd leaned into the act, marveling, questioning, astounded.

Hmm.Now Dane leaned in. She was trying a different tack, one he wouldn’t have advised: Fear. Dark forces. The unknown. She was acting tentative, extending her hands into space as if something might bite them, her eyes darting about as if seeing something sinister. She was playing it well and giving people the willies.

Still, Dane winced to himself. This wasn’t consistent with the rest of her act, her wonder-eyed, playful persona. The fun was gone, and he was disappointed. He made a mental note. The goofy Hobett tampering with the dark side? That would have worked better with the Gypsy.

She’d also trimmed down the routine. No rotations, no gleeful somersaults. She rose a few feet, held herself there in the precarious grip of whatever power supposedly had her, then settled to the floor at the peak of the crowd’s interest. She got her enthusiastic big finish. To Dane’s thinking, the response would have been even better if she’d not “tapped into the unknown” and come back sweating, trembling, and looking faint even as she greeted members of the audience. Some folks asked if she was all right, and her acting was so good they couldn’t be sure from her assurances that she was. As the folks sharing Dane’s table rose to go, a lady said, “Creepy!”

Well, that said it all. Dane would talk to Eloise about it as soon as the crowd thinned down. They would talk about many things. He scanned the menu.

“Hello. Would you happen to be Dane Collins?”

A handsome young man who dressed well and cared about his hair stood by Dane’s table, extending his hand. Dane took it. “That’s right.”

“Seamus Downey, Miss Kramer’s attorney. May I sit down?”

Dane didn’t mean to delay an answer. It simply took him a moment to process the words “Miss Kramer’s attorney.” “Uh. Sure. Have a seat.”

Downey chose the chair directly opposite Dane and planted himself there, spine, shoulders, and chin exuding confidence, authority, maybe even ownership of the table.

“Miss Kramer’s attorney,” Dane repeated. “No kidding. I didn’t know she had an attorney.”

Downey put on a smile he learned from another attorney, a banker, or a job interviewer. “Well, we’re good friends mostly, but the longer our relationship the more I’ve accepted the role of legal counsel, watching out for her interests.”

Your relationship?“How long have you known her?”

He smiled that smile again. “Long enough. We’ve had some great times together.”

“I see.”

“But I understand you’ve approached Miss Kramer regarding a professional relationship?”

And now that’s your business?“Actually, she approached me last Monday and we had a lengthy chat. I assume she’s told you all about it.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well, I am considering working with her.”

“Oh, then it’s very timely that we met.” Downey looked around the room. Eloise was just finishing up with some admirers. “Eloise?”

She said good-bye and came to the table. She looked more than tired; she looked troubled. Seamus stood—which reminded Dane to do the same—and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Wonderful performance!” They sat, Dane and Seamus facing each other, Eloise on one side. Her head drooped. She removed her hat and rubbed her eyes.

“Dear, your makeup,” said Seamus, pulling a napkin from the table dispenser.

“Oh,” she said, using the napkin to dab her face. The napkin quivered in her hand.

“I’ve just been making Mr. Collins’s acquaintance. We were about to discuss his possible future relationship with you.”

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, right.” The eyeliner left smeared shadows under her eyes, and her whiskers were streaked. Her hair was matted with sweat. She had yet to smile.

“You okay?” Dane asked.

“Yeah,” she said, and managed a smile. “Pretty tired.”

Downey said to her, “I think Mr. Collins would be interested to know how we’ve resolved some of your issues.”

“Oh, yeah, right.” She looked at Dane and said, “This is Seamus.”

“Your attorney,” said Dane.

By her inquiring glance at Downey it seemed she was still learning that idea. “Uh, yeah. And he’s, he’s really incredible. He talked to the hospital and got everything straightened out.”

Now, this was unexpected news. “Everything? Really?”

“First of all,” said Downey, “again, thank you for intervening and taking care of Eloise after that whole incident. It’s just unbelievable what happened. It was horrendous.”

Dane looked at one, then the other, unsure whom to address as he said, “You’re welcome.”

“But you’ll be glad to know that I’ve met with the hospital and they’ve agreed to a settlement.”

Yep, unexpected news. Once again, Dane had to draw on some stagecraft to keep from broadcasting his confusion and surprise all over the room. “They have?”

Downey nodded.

“Spokane County … ?”

“Spokane County Medical Center.” Downey smiled at Eloise. “Eloise will be starting up an investment portfolio, I imagine.”

She smiled back at him.

“Uh, wait a minute,” said Dane. He lowered his voice to ask, “You talked about the two guys in the SUV?”

Downey looked to Eloise. When she nodded, he replied, “After all you’ve done for Eloise you have a right to know. I can’t say the hospital was at fault—that’s part of the agreement—but I can tell you that they have compensated Eloise for any damages and that they will cease and desist from this particular method of rounding up wandering patients. No more thugs in SUVs or any other form—ever!”

Dane held himself back. Any questioning of Downey’s story would suggest Dane had his own version and now that version was bleeding value like a bad stock in a bear market. “No kidding.”

“As for any personal, private information about Eloise, that is expunged. Cleared. The hospital has no further interest in her and will respect her privacy.”

“Okay. That’s great.”

“So since this may have been a matter of concern to you, we wanted to clear this up and…”

And?

“In light of any professional interest you may have in Miss Kramer, we need to be clear that the rules of privacy apply to that relationship as well. She has already shared some things with you not realizing that they were a private matter and that she had no obligation to divulge any of it to a prospective employer, manager, instructor, whoever. So, to be fair to her, we would ask you to bar any of that information from your considerations. Wipe it from the record, let her start clean, and judge her on her own present-day merits. Are you following me so far?”

Was that a door Dane heard closing? “I think I understand what you’re saying.”

“And you must not encroach on her privacy at any time in the future. Any conversation you have with her must pertain to the business at hand, to her training, your management agreement, and so forth. Nothing personal. You follow?”

Dane rested back in his chair and eyed Seamus Downey, Miss Kramer’s attorney, taking all the time he needed to decide if he was offended or not. Mmm, yeah. He supposed he was.

“May I ask Miss Kramer a question?”

“If it’s nothing personal.”

He asked her, “Did you really hire this guy?”

Downey answered, “That’s privileged.”

“He’s my friend,” was all she said.

All right, all right, it made sense—on the face of it. She was young, Downey was young, they’d found each other, they were beginning a relationship. What could be more normal and to be expected than that? And an attorney! Could be a good catch– ifDowney was a good man. Right now Dane wasn’t so sure. Slimycame to mind. Slippery. Scheming.It was even tempting to draw out the s’s. Pardon the impressions of an old raisin, kid, but he’s not right for you.

Old raisin? Right.Another sword came to mind: sixty, his age in a few weeks. It was a good thing to keep in mind. Acting and thinking that age would keep him from being stupid enough to feel … well, the way he was feeling.

“Okay then” Dane rose, grabbed his coat and Louis L’Amour hat. “Miss Kramer, should it still matter, I agree to your request. I will be happy to coach and manage you and”—he shot a direct look at Mr. Downey—“I also agree not to ask you any more personal questions or violate your privacy.” He looked directly at her. “I’d like you to work for me in exchange for my services for, oh, let’s say a two-month probationary period. Once we get your career started and you achieve enough success to pay me a commission, then we can talk about that. Agreeable so far?”

She nodded, with respect.

“We’ll be happy to discuss any offer,” said Downey. “Of course, she may decide she already has sufficient management.”

“You?” Dane found that amusing and didn’t hide it. He told Eloise, “If you’re still interested I’ll be available at my ranch nine o’clock Monday morning. Bring a lunch and a change of clothes because you’re going to get dirty”—a glance at Downey—“and don’t bring him.”

He put on his hat, pinched the brim in her direction, and left.

Monday morning.

There was one last picture of Mandy to put away: the studio portrait from 1990 that hung in the dining room. It was one of Dane’s favorites because Mandy was posing outdoors with a serene, green landscape behind her, a reminder of where she grew up. She hadn’t lived on a ranch since they were married, but in her heart she never left it. Dane lifted the picture from its hook and carried it in front of him, her face close to his, as he went up the stairs.

Dane,he told himself, this is Mandy. This is the one who locked arms and souls with you and stayed at your side as long as she possibly could. This is the one who madeyou the center of her life, who gaveyou her smile every morning. You …

Not some hotshot, on-his-last-pimple kid who thinks he’s a lawyer.

It was ten minutes to nine. He quickened his step up to the landing and hurried down the hall.

The real thing, that’s what she was, and she stuck by you for forty years. She was no nineteen-year-old. She was well seasoned, life-proven. A complete package.

He went to a room at the end of the hall, a section of attic space that had been nicely finished to create a storeroom, hobby room, sewing room, whatever. Inside, all the pictures of Mandy throughout her life, all the framed news articles, reviews, and magazine covers, everything that had to do with Dane and Mandy leaned against the walls several layers deep. He gently set the dining room picture alongside the one of him and Mandy receiving Magicians of the Year at the Magic Castle in 1998, then stood, surrounded by all the printed and photographed proclamations that there ever was a real Mandy who loved him. He’d even hidden their wedding picture.

All right. As far as he knew, Eloise had never been anywhere in the house or looked in any direction where she could have seen these things. Now, if she showed up, she would be whoever she was with no input from him or his memorabilia, no information she could borrow to build on. She wouldn’t know of any resemblance or be burdened by it. She wouldn’t even know Mandy’s name.

Was he being rational? By now, that was becoming a very cloudy issue.

He made his way downstairs in time to hear Shirley knocking on the kitchen door.

“Knock knock?” she called.

“Come in.”

She had the mail and set it on the counter. “Good morning, Mr. C.”

“Good morning.”

“I’m going to shut down the pond skimmers today and I’m making a dump run if you have anything you want to throw out.”

“What’d we do with those patio tables that were out on the deck?”

“I put ’em in the barn.”

“We may need to move them into the dining room.”

Her eyebrows went up slightly. “Okay.”

“I want to set up the dining room like a restaurant, set up some tables to walk around and turn in different directions and talk to people sitting there, you know what I mean?”

She went into the dining room to get the concept. “A restaurant?”

“Not for real. Just for training purposes.”

“Oh.” Her eyes were lingering on the walls and shelves with empty spaces they didn’t have before.

“And I’m thinking about that barn. We could use all that floor space if we got it cleaned out, got all that straw out of there, all the junk and the animal stuff. And all that old magic stuff could stand to be gone through and stored more safely.”

She nodded, taking just enough steps to give her a view of the living room, then turning back again. “That’ll give me plenty to do this winter.”

“I might have some help for you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Eloise?”

“What do you think?”

She wasn’t overjoyed. She took one more look around the dining room and then, wincing a bit, ventured to ask, “You realize she has a drug problem?”

“I’d like to know anything you can tell me.”

“Well, you saw her for yourself, the condition she was in, and when we were alone in the bathroom she told me she had a little problem with drugs that day.”

He considered that and nodded. “I guess that’s what you’d call it.”

“And you’re sure you want to hire her?”

“She’s very talented. I’d like to help her with her career if I can, and in exchange she can work on the place—if you’re agreeable.”

Shirley was trying to act agreeable but looked constipated. “With me?”

“You’re in charge. You can set her to work on that barn for starters, and it’s okay if you give her the dirty work. I want to see how much grit she has.”

“And what if she’s just a flake?”

“It won’t take long to find out. And I want you to tell me either way.”

She just wagged her head, dark thoughts behind her eyes. “You’re the boss.”

The phone rang a double ring.

Dane checked the wall clock. It was nine o’clock, on the button.

They went to the front window.

“Oh, Lord,” said Shirley.

It was the blue Volkswagen.

chapter

24

Know how to handle a pitchfork?” Shirley asked.

“Sure,” said Eloise.

“How about a rake?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, we’ll see.” Shirley handed her both, along with a wide aluminum dustpan. “Okay, start with that corner stall. Pitch all the straw out into the middle area here and then rake the stall clean. Go through all the stalls on this side and then do the other side, and then we’ll come through here with the trailer and pick up all the straw and haul it out to the compost pile. Once we get all the straw and manure out of here we’ll start dealing with the junk.”

And have it all done before noon? Eloise didn’t want to sound lazy so she didn’t ask, but she wondered.

They were standing in the barn, a huge block of cold, very old air with four walls and a roof built around it. The main floor was a gym-size expanse of trampled straw and manure dust, and along each side were five stalls that used to hold horses and cows but now held junk that had to have been here as long as the air: big tires with no wheels, big wheels with no tires; engine blocks and a transmission with the gearshift sticking out of it; a ringer washer—what’s a barn without an old ringer washer?; a three-bladed plow; a big, circular saw blade that scared Eloise just standing still; an old, delaminating desk and a gray couch that used to be blue, peppered with mouse droppings; a mound of old carpet in a corner—at some point, she would have to lift that stuff up and she just knew a zillion mice were going to scurry out. Even though winter was coming on, some diehard flies were still buzzing around.

The only thing new in here was a mountainous island of crates, trunks, cases, and containers resting on pallets and shrouded in tarps in the center of the floor. That had to be Mr. Collins’s “unfinished movie,” all the “years and dreams and concepts” he talked about. It was sad to think that all that stuff might end up like the engine blocks, the tires, the plow, and the mousy couch: left behind, forgotten, with no one ever coming back for them.

“You work here until noon, then you clean yourself up and have lunch with Mr. Collins,” said Shirley. “I’ll be back to check your work, so don’t disappoint me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Shirley turned to leave, then turned back with another thought. “Where are you from?”

“Umm … Coeur d’Alene, I guess. Or maybe Hayden.”

Shirley made a little face, and Eloise couldn’t blame her. “Well, which is it?”

Eloise smiled at herself. “Guess it depends on when I was there.”

“I thought you were from Las Vegas.”

Las Vegas?“No, I’ve never even been there.”

Shirley thought that over. “Huh. But you’re some kind of magician?”

“I hope so.”

“Well, work your magic here. We’ll see how you do.”

She went out through the big door at the far end and closed it after her.

Sigh. That was a downer. Shirley was so nice the first time they met. Today she seemed perturbed for no reason Eloise could figure out and treated her as if she’d never used a pitchfork or even a rake before, as if she’d never even workedbefore. What brought that on?

Well, all Eloise could do was her best.

Eloise sized up the first stall, laid a plan as to where to start and how to keep from going over the same area twice, then got into it, raking the stuff into piles, stabbing big slabs with the fork, and flinging it out the stall door.

Nothing new about this. The pitchfork felt natural in her hands, as if she really had used one before, and the smell of the straw, the old barn, even the dust were exactly as she remembered them from the life she was afraid to think about. The questions Mr. Collins asked her when she first arrived played through her mind: Ever worked on a ranch? Know anything about horses? Can you drive a tractor? Ever done any plumbing or carpentry?She felt just this side of being a liar and may have looked like one answering yes every time, but it was the truth and that was just so weird. If she’d never grown up on a ranch and learned all this stuff, how did she know it now?

Her only answer was to dig in and keep pitching toward the stall door. It was a lot easier to pitch and rake hay and horse poop than figure out how she could have acquired skills she could not have acquired in a life she could not have had. The work, right there in her hands, she could understand. She could do that, and hopefully do it well enough to please Mr. Collins.

Dear Lord—she flung another forkload of straw out the stall door– I only ask one thing of You: don’t let me mess up.

She finished the first stall, then the second, then the third. She was sweating now, feeling a little crusty with the dust, and hoping she was doing all right. She thought she was. She stretched her back, gently stretched the work curl out of her fingers, and got going on the fourth stall.

Oh-oh.Shirley was working in the next stall, pitching hay and raking. This was no time to slow down. Eloise put the tines to the ground and pushed all the harder, moving straw toward the door and then heaving it onto a mounting pile just outside. She was getting tired. Her arms were aching.

Fling! A sizable wad of straw came flying out of the next stall. Shirley was putting her back into it, looking good. No doubt she expected the same from Eloise, so Eloise kept at it, grunting with the effort, moving, moving, moving that straw.

The floor was finally clear. Eloise used the rake to pull the last straggling bits into the dustpan, then emptied the dustpan on top of the heap outside. Shirley must have finished as well. Things were quiet over there.

Very quiet. Eloise paused to listen and watch. No sound, no motion.

No pile outside the stall either. What did Shirley do, haul it off already? Eloise’s heart sank a touch. How could she ever keep up with that?

“Shirley?”

No answer.

“I’ve got these all done. Did you want to take a look?”

No answer.

Eloise approached the stall, neck craning.

No Shirley. All the straw and debris still lay on the floor of the stall as if she’d never been there.

“Shirley?”

Eloise looked, listened, and called again, but Shirley wasn’t in the barn. She closed her eyes in a long, earnest blink and opened them: same barn, same stalls, all quiet and normal, the scent of hay and manure still hanging in the air. She was still in the same place. Nothing had changed.

After a quiet, watchful moment she was able to sigh and tell herself, Well, this isn’t the first time. Take it in stride. Live with it.

But why today, of all days? What if things got really heavy like the other night, and she couldn’t tell the difference between real and weird right in front of Shirley or Mr. Collins?

She went into the next stall and got to work. It was all she could do, the best she could do. She dug in, pitched the hay out the door, raked some more, pitched some more—

Until she heard someone in the previous stall, pitching and raking. Oh, please.She wilted, rolling her eyes. Well, okay, live with it, but no messing around this time!Pitchfork still in hand, she dashed over and looked in the stall.

It was all cleaned out, just the way she’d left it, and no one was there.

Don’t think about it,she told herself. Just keep your mind and your eyes in the real world and don’t go anywhere else, especially today.

As she showered, she tried to experience nothing but the hot water drenching her head and streaming off her nose and chin. As she stood in front of the bathroom mirror she tapped the side of her face to see if her reflection would do the same. Still there? Still Eloise? So far.

Okay. This is real.

What if he asks me how I do what I do? What if he expects me to levitate and I start seeing … he’s going to think … oh, bummer. I can’t go there.

She put out a hand and touched the wall next to the mirror. You’re in the bathroom in the shop building. You have fifteen minutes to get down to the house and have lunch with Mr. Collins. It’s down that gravel path, the same one you came up with Shirley. Stay with it now.

Dane had prepared a small lunch for himself. He’d set the breakfast nook table for two, just functional, not fancy. He was heating up some chocolate syrup to make a café mocha, not for himself but for Eloise, and for no other reason than to see if she liked them. Mandy always did.

As he punched in the settings for a double shot—that’s how Mandy liked her mochas—he reassured himself once again that he was being rational. Yes, there were emotions involved, but he was aware of them, they were on hold, and he would deal with them with no denial. Yes, the very notion that she could be … that she was somehow … well, it was madness, self-delusion, a trick of emotions, hormones, and/or painkillers, buthe was approaching this whole thing logically, at minimal risk. In his orientation interview with her that morning he’d slipped in perfectly acceptable, nonpersonal questions for an employer to ask and gotten a string of yeses: Yes, she’d worked on a ranch, had worked with horses, could drive a tractor, had done some plumbing and some carpentry, and this was information that would not have been publicly available—just like her beverage of choice. This café mocha would be another question, a tiny, risk-free inquiry. If she didn’t care for mocha he could always drink it.

Oh!There she was, freshened up, in a clean change of clothes, hair shampoo-soft, looking timid, as if she were a troubled student and he was the vice principal. His first impulse was to smile and try to set her at ease. “Well, hello. How’d your morning go?”

She returned his smile, but it wasn’t her real one. “I think it went fine. I got four and a half stalls done.”

“Would you like a double-shot café mocha—decaf?”

Now the smile was half real and the eyes widened with surprise. “Wow! That’s my favorite! Thanks.”

Bam! Another yes.

The look on his face made her look herself over. “What?”

He got over whatever it was and laughed at himself. “Oh, nothing, I’m just … amazed. Boy, did I guess lucky! Have a seat.” He nodded toward the breakfast nook. She gravitated to the far chair facing the kitchen and checked by pointing at it. “Yep.”

The table was set with plates, silverware, and paper napkins. She pulled her chair back and placed her sack lunch next to her plate.

He brought her mocha as she sat down. “It’s dirty work, isn’t it?”

“I don’t mind.”

He had half a sandwich prepared for himself—a nice-looking stack of wheat bread, tomatoes, pickles, and what appeared to be prime rib, along with a cup of nonfat strawberry yogurt and a cup of coffee. He took the chair across from her. “Well, right, you’ve worked on a ranch before.”

Well … in a way.“Uh-huh.”

“Was that your home?”

“Uh …” Come on, Eloise, answer the question. How?“Um … most of my life. I think.”

“So you raised horses. Any cattle?”

Her answer was a totally dumb-sounding “Uh-huh,” and it sounded so guilty a cop would have arrested her.

“So I guess your dad was a rancher.”

The answer stuck in her throat.

“Oh, would that be too personal?”

“Um … it could get that way.”

“I understand.”

She groped in her lunch sack and found some celery sticks with peanut butter. She bit off half of one just to stuff her mouth. He took a bite from his sandwich and there was sweet, safe silence.

Not for long.

“I knew some folks who raised llamas,” he said.

It wasn’t even a question, but it stopped a stick of celery halfway to her mouth, and the look on her face made him check himself for a drool or a spill.

“We raised”—she had to clear her throat—“we raised some llamas. Isn’t that a trip?”

Now he had to mind what his face might be doing. Oh, yes, it was a trip, all right—and the vernacular had not gotten by him. “You—you really did?”

“And my dad was an architect. We did ranching because we loved it.”

“So that’s where you learned to drive a tractor and do carpentry and all that?”

“My mom died when I was thirteen, so it was just Daddy and me to run the place. But Mom used to do all that stuff, and Daddy told me, ‘When you get married and have a family of your own, you’ll need to know all this stuff too so you can take care of them.’”