Breeding Ground (10 page)

He normally wouldn't have thought about her much. It was probably because of the contrast. He'd dreamt about Jane, and gotten up at four, and the difference between her and Tara was so striking it startled him at Spencer's and made him worry at it now.

He shook his head and sighed once, then squeezed down the stairs to dish up leftover chicken and green beans from two nights before.

He ate in the low-ceilinged dining room in the front of the downstairs, gazing across the two-story living room, wondering where Jane was now.

Probably still in Chicago. Doing the right thing.

It'd been two weeks away when he'd lost her. Church reserved. Dresses made. After his year in the hospital talking with Jane about everything they could think of. Seeing how much they interested each other, and how well they worked together. Watching her too, when she wasn't looking, as she volunteered with the head wounds and the shell-shocked – the college-professor war-widow, making the best of the worst.

One phone call and it was over. Her husband was back from the dead. Afraid and ashamed to come home to her, knowing how damaged he was.

It was some consolation that she'd gone out of duty. She did what was right, which made him care about her more.

But finding someone like her seems less likely all the time. And when I compare her to Tara – who wants what she wants when she wants it, from what I saw – I worry about Spence.

I'm not being fair. I can't be. I've only met Tara once. But the look on her face made my skin crawl when they were talking about dinner. It was like she knows she's biding her time till she can take the gloves off once Spence is tied down.

I could be wrong. I hope I am. But what I read there between the lines leads to nothing but misery.

And Jo Grant? What about her?

I probably ought to call her. To tell her I'm going to let Jack move in. And need help finding him work.

Thursday, April 19, 1962

Jo had led Alan past the horse barns to what was left of the pioneer cabin her great-great-granddaddy had built when he worked for the Revolutionary colonel who'd built the big house.

The ruins sat at the south end of the property where the ridge fell away to low hills and meadows, where woods grew thick and flowering on the west above a wide rocky creek bed that cut through a steep ravine.

The sun was dropping toward the woods as they laid out the picnic dinner they'd worked on together. Toss had eaten his, and Emmy was with him, so Jo and Alan could sit there alone on the old stone mounting block and watch a red-tail drift overhead looking for prey in the pastures.

They ate tuna salad and pickled beets, and crunched Triscuits with cheddar cheese while they talked about things like places they'd been and movies they wanted to see.

Then Jo leaned back on her elbows and looked across at Alan. “Should I tell you what Tom said about Jack on the tape?”

“Sure. I need to know as much as I can, and he's not doing much talking.”

“His parents came from Russia. His dad was a doctor there, and some kind of minor aristocrat. A Frenchman whose wife Jack's dad had cured of something helped them escape after the Revolution.”

“I have a friend,” Alan said, as he handed Jo the beets, “whose father was smuggled out of Russia as a small boy in 1918, who's never been able to mention it – living in Russia, or what the family went through – even to his own children.”

“That's amazing.”

“I know. And the millions in the camps since? How traumatized were they? Even the families of the ones who survived.”

“Exactly. Anyway, Jack's mom was a lot younger than his dad, and she was pregnant with Jack at the time. She was injured somehow when they were escaping so that one of her hands was badly damaged.

“She'd been a pianist, and she could never play again, at least not at the level she wanted to. But they got to Paris, where she had relatives who'd left Russia before them, and they stayed there for two or three years. And then when they were able to come to the States, Jack's dad changed his name to Freeman because, he said, it was the very first time he knew what it was to be free.”

Alan said, “That's interesting,” as Jo handed him the tuna.

“So he worked his rear end off and got himself through medical school here, for the second time, and went into practice in Michigan.”

“Did he seem to be bitter about that?”

“Not according to what Jack told Tom. Anyway, Tom said Jack was incredibly good at languages, and went to Yale law school, graduating when he was younger than normal. He also published a couple of books of poetry before the war, and did a lot of pro bono work in Chicago. He enlisted after Pearl Harbor, and was eventually recruited by the O.S.S.”

Alan smiled and shook his head. “And all Jack would admit to was that he'd gone to college.”

“That's intriguing in itself.”

“Yes. So after what happened in France, he turned his back on everything he was educated to do. Or was expected to do. Maybe that's closer.” Alan cut Jo a piece of cheddar, and handed her another Triscuit.

“But I don't know why, or what it means.”

“Did Tom say any more about Jack's parents?”

“Jack told Tom at some point that his mom had become obsessed with collecting antique musical instruments. That they live in a dilapidated mansion in a horrible part of downtown Detroit that she's filled with historic instruments. His dad pays for it, maybe because he feels sorry for her. But it's kept him working into his eighties. Inventing biocides too, and selling them to chemical companies, when he'd rather retire and work on other things. Tom also got the impression that Jack's mom hardly noticed him when he was growing up.”

“Great.” Alan stood up and stretched his legs, dropping his heels off the mounting block's step, before he rubbed his left thigh. “Families are unfathomable. And the people we fall in love with? That's even more mysterious. As several playwrights and poets have mentioned. You know Spencer Franklin?”

“Sure. I like him a lot. You know why his dad's called Booker?”

“Nope.”

“He was raised on a farm here near Paris, and when he was a kid, he always had a book in his hand. He actually read the whole Encyclopedia Britannica, and his folks started calling him Booker.”

“Good for him.”

“So what were you going to say about Spencer?”

“He's gotten engaged to a woman who works at Blue Grass. I've only met her once, and I may not be being fair, but I didn't trust her at all. I could tell his mom is worried about Tara too. But Spence, who is highly intelligent and very perceptive in general, seems not to notice what his mom and I both see.
If
I'm being fair.”

“Did you say Tara? T-a-r-a, as in the house in
Gone With The Wind?
”

“I guess so. Tara Kruse. She says it like it rhymes with Sarah. You look like you sat on a pin.”

“That's because I knew a Tara in high school who tried to do deliberate harm to a really good guy. Revenge of the woman scorned kind of thing.”

“You're making it sound extreme.”

“It was, believe me. She moved away before she graduated, and I never heard what happened to her. But it might be worth trying to find out if this is the same person. Because if it is, Spencer's life won't be worth living.”

“That bad?”

“Maybe even worse.” Jo smiled, before her dark blue eyes turned serious, and she pushed her thick brown pony tail back behind her shoulders. “Her last name was Wilson. I knew her aunt, starting when I was little. My dad bred and trained a horse for the aunt. Tara hated horses. She had to do barn work for her aunt once in awhile, and she did it all as badly as she could, and wasn't too particular about keeping the horses safe.”

“What kind of people do that? Not take care of an animal that—”

“There're plenty around. Racing's got all kinds. Some of the things that happen would turn your stomach.”

“How are you doing, by the way? With Toss and—”

“Sam, and Maggie, and Emmy, and the other horses, as well as the seven barn cats?”

“Yes.” Alan laughed and ate the last of the cheese on his plate.

“I think it helped me to blurt it all out to you the other night.”

“Good. I know what that's like.”

“I kept Sam. I couldn't let him go, not when it got right down to it. He's a great guy, and I'll be here to ride him, because of Toss. I've given half-ownership of Maggie and her foal to Toss, kind of like an investment for both of us. And I'm keeping Emmy too. Toss can watch her part of the time when I have to go out.”

“So things have changed since the other night?”

Jo looked out at the fields, while her face turned fiery, then drank the rest of her tea. “I got it out and looked at it, and didn't like it much.”

“Getting it out can be good.”

“Tom said something too on the tape that made me think. The reality is I can't leave right now, and fighting it isn't going to help. I'll just have to go another time.”

Alan nodded, and ate the last of his beets and sour cream.

“I've always loved animals. It was just being a nurse for so long, with my mom and my horse and everything. I was being a rebellious little jerk when I snapped at you.”

“I've snapped at plenty of people. I've got a really nasty temper I've spent years trying to learn to control.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“One good thing that's happened for me is that a friend of mine called and asked me to consult on the restoration of White Hall. It's the old country house that belonged to Cassius Marcellus Clay. It's been quietly falling apart, and working on the restoration will be very interesting, even if I don't get paid.”

“That reminds me. Would you be willing to consult on Equine Pharmaceuticals' lab? It needs to be reorganized and refurbished, and I need someone good to do it. I have to get authorization, but I thought I'd ask if you're interested first. It's not exactly architecture, although—”

“I'd like to. But you've never even seen my work.”

“Tom had pictures of quite a few of your designs.”

They were both quiet for a minute, repacking the dishes, listening to the night, before Alan asked, “What did Tara do to the kid in high school?”

“Well, first you have to understand that when Tara was twelve, she looked like she was sixteen. Big chest. Lots of curves. And she got way too interested in boys. When she was fourteen she started trying to… I don't know what to call it… ensnare a really good guy who was two years older. He was a serious boy who studied a lot, trying to get into an excellent college. Cliff did sports too. He wasn't a bore or anything, but he was young and very naive. He was flattered, and dazzled maybe. Not having dated much before.

“Anyway, his family was religious. Not fanatical but serious, and they were appalled by Tara's attentions. Phoning all the time, stopping by the house, appearing late at night outside his window. His family had more money than she did, and maybe she was interested in that. Her mom was divorced and worked hard as a bookkeeper, but they didn't have a lot, and she didn't know what to do with Tara.

“Cliff's family called Tara's mom and suggested she keep her at more of a distance, and Tara went wild. She denied being interested in him, said she had all kinds of boys who wanted to date her, and she began sending nasty things through the mail. I think even a dead rat. She told everybody he was a sissy, with fictional and vicious details, plus a mama's boy and a snob. She ended up throwing a rock through a window, though they couldn't prove it was her. There were other things, but that's the gist.”

“Great.”

“I know. She was smart. She could be incredibly charming when she wanted to be. She got a lot of male teachers to think she was terribly misunderstood, but you could see something was wrong with her. There was meanness there and extreme self-obsession. And women saw it easier than men.”

“Is that all firsthand knowledge?”

“Some. I saw some letters and was there when phone calls came in too. She was five years younger, so I wasn't there to see it all. But that's what happened. I know for a fact from more than one source. When she was sixteen she went off with some guy. But I don't know what she's been up to since.”

“And we don't know that this Tara is the same one.”

“It might be worth finding out, though. If she's the same person, I'm going to have to tell Spence. I couldn't sleep at night if I didn't.”

“Friendships can get ruined by stepping in like that.”

“I know. But what else could I do and live with myself too?”

Friday, April 20, 1962

Jo and Toss were heading toward the barns, Jo walking, with Emmy on a leash, Toss grumbling loudly that he didn't need to be pushed in a chair, that he ought to be using his crutches.

“Toss, knock it off. Please. You know you can't put weight on your legs. They've told you that over and over.” Jo said it with a smile in her voice and rolled her eyes for her own amusement, since Toss couldn't see her. “If you want to get out of the house, you're stuck with me for a… oh, no!”

Jo was staring at Buddy, a hundred yards up ahead, leading Maude – the oldest, wiliest, most belligerent mare, they'd been stuck with for years, who spent every moment of her miserable life looking for a chance to take advantage – make one of her typical break-outs, knocking against Buddy, barging through the paddock gate Buddy had just opened.

She yanked her lead rope out of his hands, charged across the drive, then ran along the yearling paddock, bucking and kicking by the fencerow, stirring up the colts who were watching – till she stopped suddenly to crop tall grass growing outside their water trough.