Breeding Ground (22 page)

They started her on Warfarin, a blood thinner to help it dissolve, and kept her in bed with her legs up.

She wasn't looking forward to taking rat poison, but they'd given Warfarin to President Eisenhower after his heart attack when he was in office, so there probably wasn't anything better.

She handled it the way she handled most things. She got as much information as she could and weighed the options presented, then prayed about it, and told herself not to worry, and worked at keeping her mind busy.

Booker was there all morning, some of the time with Richard. The pain in her leg was some better than it had been, and Alice slept and read books. And told Booker to go to the office for a couple of hours that afternoon, when she knew he had an appointment she thought he ought to keep. Spence was coming in to be with her, and he'd call Booker if he needed to. There were supposed to be strict visiting hours in that hospital then, but the nurses and doctors who ran the place bent rules when they could, and Spence got to stay.

When his mom dozed off about two, he pulled Jo's notes out of his briefcase and read them from first to last. He'd listened to Dwayne's tape the night before, and the more he heard and the more he read, the sicker he felt.

That's what he saw too. Sickness and deceit. And it made him want to pack his bags and leave for parts unknown.

“Hey.” Alice was watching him over her raised legs as though she were reading his mind. “You want to tell me what's the matter?”

“You're the one in the hospital. You don't need to worry about me.”

“Something's wrong. It's written all over you. And I'd rather know, than not know.”

Spencer pushed the papers in his briefcase, then tried to make himself smile. “It's nothing I ever expected to have happen, that's for sure.”

“Why? In what way?” She settled herself deeper in her pillows, her face gray and sunken, her eyes puffy and tired, the skin around them looking bruised and thin.

“Josie Grant and Alan Munro… well… Josie knew Tara in high school and thought Tara treated a boy she knew very peculiarly and very badly. She knew Tara's aunt – who works here, actually – and last week Jo asked her what Tara had been up to since she left high school. What she said led Jo to talk to someone else, and she wrote notes about what she learned and gave them to me yesterday.”

“And?” Alice looked as though she was holding her breath, while her fingers smoothed her sheet.

“Because of what Jo found out, Alan located other people from Tara's past, and he's passed on to me what he learned. So there are things that have come to light that I need to check out for myself.”

“I see.”

Spencer watched Alice carefully. He saw her try to look absolutely neutral and not pull it off. He saw the relief and the half-hidden excitement, and thought about what he ought to say. “Once I've corroborated their versions, if it's true what they've found, I'll let you read Jo's notes. Tara works for you. You've got a right to know what she's like. And yes, as you've said many times, that's why it's not smart to date someone you work with, in case it falls apart.”

“So if it's true—”

“I'll have to distance myself right away.
If
it's true. And I'm beginning to suspect it is.”

“Better to find out now rather than after you're married.”

“I know.” Spence stood up and looked out the window with his back turned to the room. “If it is true, you know what's really scary?”

“That you didn't see signs of whatever it is yourself?”

“Yep. That would be it. That I interpreted the handful of moments when she said things that didn't quite ring true, or did things that gave me pause, differently with her than I would've with someone else.”

“What kind of things has she done?”

“Well. Last week, we went to see the university's production of ‘Private Lives'. She brought it up. She wanted to go. After we got to our seats, I started reading the program about the cast and Noel Coward and the play, and she got really irritated because I was reading instead of talking to her.

“I told her I didn't think she was being fair, and she was quiet for a minute or two. But then she started in on it again, and she was obviously hot under the collar. I told her reading the program would give us something to talk about and a better context for seeing the play. So why didn't she read it too, and then we could talk? She did. But she didn't like it. If we'd been married, from what Jo and Alan have found, I think her reaction would've been worse.”

“And the way she did act made you wonder how reasonable a person she is.”

“It did. But not enough. Maybe.”

“Remember Giselle, though, when you analyze your attraction to Tara. Because don't you think you cared about Gigi from the first? And part of your involvement comes from wanting to give her a really good dad?”

“I do. The way I wanted to help Tara. To kind of make up for how badly she'd been treated before. But if all that stuff she told me wasn't true, then what does that make me?”

“A kind man. One who needs an ethical, faithful, self-motivated, highly intelligent wife with a life of her own, but an interest in the business, with a sense of humor as well, who sees the universe the way he does, and actually deserves him.”

“Anything else?”

They both laughed before Spence said, “And would this ‘kind man' recognize such a woman as you describe for what she actually is?”

“Yes. Because you'll learn from this.” Alice pulled the long thick braid that was caught behind her back in front of her left shoulder.

“I hope. But there's pride involved too. I've patted myself on the back for being rational and observant, and a generally good judge of character so—”

“I think you
are
all those things.”

“Yeah, but you're my mom. And how do you explain Tara? If what they say is true.”

“It's not like the rest of us haven't made mistakes like this. You were off fighting a war at the age when most of us make them. The issue is to learn from them. To see what it is in
you
that made you susceptible.”

“I've been smug too. I've watched people make irrational decisions based solely on feeling, romantic and otherwise, and secretly mocked them for being too emotional. Well, now I've done the same thing. If what I've been told is true.”

“So you're human. And you'll be more sympathetic in the future when other people make mistakes.”

“I hope. But this isn't as important right now as your leg. Do you think the doctors know what they're doing?”

“I think so. We'll see. I was doing well from the surgery, and I'm in good shape in general. I eat well and exercise all the time, and they seem to think my chances are good.”

“Has Richard been here?”

“This morning.”

“How was he?”

“He was good. Except he's using this as another reason why your dad and I should retire.”

“Nuts.”

“I know. He didn't say anything when Booker was here though.”

“He wouldn't.” Spencer had been pacing the room, and he swung back toward Alice, his blue eyes fierce, his eyebrows indignant, his mouth tight with disgust. Then he exhaled, shook his head, and said, “How much of that is Lily beating up on him in the background?”

“Some, I'm sure.”

“And just to add to the pressure, there's what I've almost done to you.”

“What?”

“Foisted a second lunatic daughter-in-law on you when you've got enough troubles of your own.” Spencer smiled and squeezed Alice's toes through the sheet and the blanket.

Buddy Jones, dressed in his Sunday clothes, walked up to the white-columned portico of Mercer Tate's home, and knocked on the broad front door.

The housekeeper let him into the long formal foyer, with a wide white staircase curving way up, and told him to go into the library, right there on his right.

It was a square room, completely lined with books, except for two jib windows and a white marble mantelpiece in the middle of the outside wall. Two large antique globes were set in opposite corners on a wine and indigo Persian carpet that almost covered the heart pine floor. A walnut English partner desk stood perpendicular to the fireplace, close up on its right, and Mercer Tate sat there, a lamp lit on the desk, a floor lamp lit behind him, reading a sheaf of papers when Buddy walked in.

“Come on in and take a seat.” He waved a hand toward the black leather armchair pulled up in front of the desk.

“Thank you for seeing me. I know you're a busy man.”

“What can I do for you, Buddy?” Mercer Tate had laid the papers down and was twirling a pen on the desk, slowly spinning it counterclockwise. He didn't try to hurry him by asking anything more. He just waited while Buddy sat there stiffly as though will power alone were keeping him in the chair.

“Well, sir.” Buddy swallowed and locked his hands together in his lap. “I don't rightly know how to say this. But one of your stallion grooms, Frankie D'Amato? He made me an offer I reckon you oughtta know about. I hate to be one carrying tales, but I give it a lotta thought, and if I was you, I'd wantta know, and you've treated me real well from the start, and I feel like I gotta say.”

“What has Frankie done?” Mercer Tate's face didn't change at all but he brushed a hand through his grey hair and sat up straighter in his chair as though something hurt somewhere, as though sitting one way for a long time made the arthritis worse.

“He told me he'd breed my mare to one of your stallions when no one was around to see if I paid him two hunnerd bucks.”

Mercer Tate smiled and looked almost relieved as he dropped the pen on the desk. “I knew that. I did. D'Amato was overheard when he was talking to you, and I've been waiting to see how you'd handle it.”

“How could he of been overheard? We was alone when—”

“You don't need to concern yourself with the details, Buddy.”

“But—”

“You've done the right thing, and I give you a great deal of credit. D'Amato will be gone before the end of the day.”

“He'll figure I got him fired.”

“I don't expect so. I'll tell him he was overheard, which is nothing but the truth, and that I've been waiting to decide what I ought to do.”

“Thank you, sir. That oughtta help. Maybe if you could tell him how he was overheard that'd make a difference.”

Mercer Tate watched Buddy for a second, before he chose to speak. “There was someone in the tack room.”

“Oh. I can see that. Yeah. I didn't go in there that whole afternoon.”

“I want you to know I've been very pleased with the work you've been doing for me. And if you'd like, when Toss Watkins is back on his feet and doesn't need the extra hand, I'd be willing to take you on. You can still work here part-time, now that you've paid off the vet bill, if you'd like to, and then come on full-time when Toss doesn't need you. There's a tenant house too, where we used to have the sheep farm, if that would be of interest.”

Buddy's face turned bright red, and he swallowed hard before he spoke. “Thank you, sir. I'd be real proud to work for you whatever way you want.”

It was a shotgun house in downtown Lexington, long and narrow from front to back, and Tara and Gigi were in the living room just inside the front porch.

They'd eaten dinner on the sofa in front of the TV. Cereal, like the night before – Cheerios and milk with sliced bananas, and Coke to chase it down.

Giselle was on the floor rolling back and forth on her stomach on the round gray plastic-covered ottoman she'd turned on its side, watching the end of Gunsmoke. Tara was putting polish on her toenails, bright pink to match her fingernails and the lipstick she'd just bought. There were dishes on the coffee table, cereal bowls from both nights, and at least three breakfasts. And when Gunsmoke was over, Tara told Giselle to take them to the kitchen and put them in the sink.

“Do I have to do it now?”

“Yes.”

“Are you gonna help me?”

“My polish isn't dry yet.”

“Will we live on Spencer's farm when you get married?” Gigi was looking at her mom, while still lying on the ottoman, her head hanging almost to the floor, a stillness about her then that made it feel like a serious question that needed a serious answer.

“Yep. You'll have a big bedroom, and he'll cook you hamburgers on the grill and make waffles in the morning sometimes.”

“Great! Like Daddy does when I visit him.”

Tara stretched her legs out along the couch and opened a new movie magazine with Steve McQueen on the cover.

Giselle slid off the ottoman, then jumped up and twirled around. She was dressed all in pink – leotard, tights and a tutu – and she sang “Alvin The Chipmunk” louder and louder as she swirled around in a circle. “Will you take me to my dance class tomorrow?”

“It's the day after tomorrow.”

“I knew that. I was being silly.” Giselle had her arms over her head and her brown eyes were laughing as she bent forward, and then back, and leapt straight up in the air.

“Don't hit the dishes!”

“I wantta get a bath.”

“Not tonight.”

“Why not?”

“I'm tired.”

“I just turned six. I can take it myself. My hair's all icky.” It did look sticky and dirty, hanging long and tangled.

“Spencer'll be over tomorrow after dinner, so we have to clean up the house.”

“I want to get a bath and wash my hair!”

“We'll see.”

“Please!”

“We'll see. Maybe. In a while.”

“I bet you'll give me a bath because Spencer's coming over.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because.”