Fox River (15 page)

Now Christian looked out on the acres he and Robby had explored so thoroughly together. The automobile accident that had taken his friend’s life seemed particularly unjust. Robby must have been disheartened after Christian’s conviction. Although Robby had grown from a scrawny, narrow-faced boy into an attractive man, he had never found it easy to make friends. With Christian’s imprisonment and Fidelity’s death, he had lost two of the three people he felt most comfortable with.

With Julia’s marriage to Bard, he had probably lost the third.

Christian knew that if his friend were alive now, he, more than anyone, would be overjoyed that Christian had been freed.

It was just one more tragic irony.

“T
ell me again what you know about this woman.” Julia scooped her hair back from her face and wished she had brought a barrette. She had forgotten that the air conditioner in Maisy and Jake’s pickup had died, and Jake, Mr. Fix-it to the rich and influential, had never quite gotten around to replacing it. Despite autumn’s arrival, the day was surprisingly warm.

“You’re shouting,” Maisy shouted.

“That’s the only way I can make myself heard with the windows open!”

“I think that’s why Jake never fixed the air conditioner. He has an excuse not to listen to me when we travel together.”

Julia smiled at what might well be the truth. “Slow down, Maisy. You’ll get another ticket.”

“How do you know how fast I’m going?”

“By the speed of the wind rushing past me. Slow down.”

Julia was thrown forward, and the wind decreased a little, but just a little. “Nobody wants to give me a ticket. The last patrolman who tried ended up begging me to go away. And all because I tried, very nicely, to explain about Cora Falworth and the Amazon rain forest.”

“Please don’t tell me what that had to do with you speeding.”

“
He
didn’t want to hear my story, either.”

“You were going to tell me what you know about this woman?” Julia and Maisy were on the way to Warrenton for Julia’s first visit to her new therapist, and Julia knew she was being childish. But after her experience with Dr. Jeffers, she wanted reassurance.

“Her name is Yvonne Claxton. She’s somewhere between my age and yours. She has a Ph.D. from a school in California and postgraduate training from someplace in New York.”

“That’s not very specific.”

“I’m not a specific kind of gal, honey. I don’t remember useless details. I’m more impressed with what people have said about her. She’s insightful, kind, and more than willing to take her time getting to the bottom of things. She visited the gallery a time or two when I was there. I liked her enormously.”

The gallery in the Ashbourne stables was Maisy’s biggest triumph, and although now it was run by a board of directors, Maisy was still very much on the scene. She was friends with all the artists and craftsmen who exhibited there, and drew heavily on them for counsel.

“You’re afraid she can’t help, aren’t you?” Maisy said.

“Well, I don’t expect to come out of her office commenting on how blue the sky is, if that’s what you mean.”

If Maisy noted the frost in Julia’s voice, she didn’t comment. “What I mean is that you’re wondering if there’s any point to this.”

Julia fell silent, but guilt finally motivated her to speak. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“We’re almost at her office. Just hang in there.”

By the time they parked, Julia was feeling even more certain that this was a bad idea. Maisy opened her door and put her hand on Julia’s arm. “You ready?”

“How far to the door?”

“About ten yards.”

“I hate this.”

“It’s your first time out in public. Of course it feels strange.”

“I feel like a little kid playing Blind Man’s Bluff.”

“I could carry you.”

For some reason that broke the tension. Julia laughed. “You’re a pain in the patootie, you know that, don’t you?”

“I try my darnedest. I won’t lead you into anything, and I’ll tell you if you have to duck.”

Once inside, Julia felt better. The office was cool, and the waiting room sofa was comfortable. Maisy had told her no one else was there. Julia shifted in her seat. “I’d ask for a magazine, if there was any point to it.”

A door opened and a woman spoke. “You must be Julia.”

Julia got to her feet. “I guess it’s pretty obvious.”

“Sure. Maisy said you looked exactly like her.” Yvonne moved toward Julia. “I’m going to put my hand on your arm and lead you into my office. Game?”

“Game.” Julia appreciated the warning. She chalked up points for the therapist. She said goodbye to her mother, and Yvonne guided her through a short hallway and into her office. She helped Julia into a chair and seated herself nearby.

“I’m going to describe myself,” Yvonne said. “Unless Maisy already did?”

“Not physically.”

“I’m African-American, almost six feet tall, thin, but not thin enough to model. I wear my hair short and my dresses long, and my eyes are a peculiar shade of blue, thanks to some slave owner in my background. I have big feet and hands, and perfect little ears studded with gold until the day I can afford diamonds.” Yvonne paused. “Why don’t you describe yourself?”

Julia was still assembling the picture of Yvonne in her mind. “Why? You can see me.”

“I’m interested in how you see yourself.”

“I’m blind.”

“Uh-huh.”

Julia bit off her words. “That’s how I see myself.”

“Then I’d say you’re blind in more ways than one.”

Julia let that sink in. “I have a serious face, features I’ve never had to agonize over, a widow’s peak that caused me no end of torment as a teenager, a thin body growing thinner since most of my meals end up in my lap. Small feet, blue eyes some slave owner probably bequeathed
me,
and ears no one with a brain would want to accentuate.”

“Come on, let me see them.”

Julia pulled her hair back and grimaced. “Big ears.”

“Normal ears, but not nearly as wonderful as mine.”

Julia gave a little smile.

“And not such a serious face when you smile,” Yvonne said.

Julia sobered. “It’s odd to know you’re looking at me and I can’t see you. It makes me feel like I’m under examination.”

“You are.”

“I don’t want to be here. I don’t want anyone else examining me.”

“Had your fill of that already, did you?”

“They couldn’t find a thing wrong with me. Not one blessed thing. This is all in my head.”

“Uh-huh. But I’ll let you in on a little secret. The people who come here all have that problem. There’s a lot of that ‘head’ thing going around.”

“Have you ever treated anybody with hysterical blindness?”

“Nope. It’s not all that common, particularly not with symptoms lasting as long as yours. We could search a long time and still not find you a therapist who’s treated your condition before. And if we did find someone, he’d tell you what I’m going to. Every case is different. Every person is different. Every precipitating event is different.”

“Precipitating event? I fell off a horse.”

“And that triggered it. Yes, I know.”

“I’ve fallen off horses before.”

“Tell me how it feels.”

Julia sat back. She was aware of a ceiling fan spinning overhead. Somewhere in the distance she heard a car start. “Do you think you can help me?”

“I’m hoping you’ll help yourself. Tell me how it felt to fall off that horse, Julia. I don’t ride, so start from the moment you mounted.”

Julia closed her eyes and began to describe the day she lost her eyesight.

Christian had heard stories of famine victims who survived for months with little food, only to die when well-meaning relief workers fed them too much, too quickly. After his first day back at Claymore Park, he understood that better. He had been inundated with sensations whose existence he’d nearly forgotten. He felt bloated and drained simultaneously. He was aware of each breath he took, as if even the simplest things about his body were under siege.

Now, as the sun sank over the mountains, he sat on one of Claymore Park’s numerous terraces and tried to get a grip on his emotions. He had survived imprisonment. He would survive freedom.

“It has to be hard.” Peter came out on the terrace and handed Christian a glass of iced tea. “Every day will seem easier.”

“It’s that obvious, huh?” Christian took the glass but couldn’t drink. He was sure if he put one more thing inside his body, it would explode.

“You were raised with more physical freedom than most young men. Prison must have been particularly difficult.”

Christian dredged up a smile. “I don’t want to go back, if it’s all the same to you.”

“That would have been my guess.” Peter took a chair near his. “Did you ride today?”

“No.” Christian had acquainted himself with the horses, but he had felt too explosive to mount any of them. He was afraid that once he got on horseback, he would imitate his cowboy ancestors and simply ride off into the sunset.

“What do you think of my hounds?”

Dogs were something Christian still felt at home with, and he latched on to the topic. “I think you’ve been doing some brilliant breeding.”

“Do you?” Peter sounded genuinely pleased.

“How are they doing in the field?”

“Well enough. Of course, you know we have successes and failures. Luckily we’ve had more of the former, but a couple of the new puppies are real disappointments. I don’t know if they can be trained or not. That’s one of the first things I want you to look at for me when you’re rested.”

“Which ones?”

“Clover and Balsam. Clover in particular. I bought her to breed down the road a piece, and she’s a pretty thing. She’s got impeccable lines. Her mother was a Champion American Bitch Hound, and her father was the Best Stallion Hound at the Bryn Mawr show two years ago. I paid a small fortune, because I thought we could use the new blood. But from all reports she has the brains of a flea, not a trait I want to pass on.”

“I’ll look for her.”

“Do you want to walk down there now for a little introduction?”

“Okay.” It sounded like a good idea to Christian. There was less chance he would fly apart if he kept moving.

Peter clapped him on the back. “Good. Let me grab a jacket.”

The kennel was far enough from the house to cushion the noise and close enough for easy access. The kennel, like everything else at Claymore Park, was state of the art.

There were three large, airy rooms holding anywhere from one to two dozen couple of hounds—hounds were sometimes coupled together for training, and were usually counted that way instead of individually. The bitches had a room to themselves, and the dog hounds had two, since bitches also had a separate facility to themselves when they were whelping. Each room had platforms that folded down for sleeping and stayed that way except in the early morning, when the room underwent a thorough cleaning. It wasn’t unusual to walk into one of the rooms and see the hounds piled happily on top of each other, snoozing away.

Each room ended with a chain-link fence looking over an outdoor run, and all of them butted against a roomy feeding area where twice a day the hounds feasted on kibble. Just beyond was an acre of fenced grass for exercise and play.

Peter greeted each dog fondly, naming them as he went and explaining their strengths and weaknesses. “Darth, short for Darth Vader here—”

“Darth Vader?”

Peter looked up. “It was a ‘D’ litter. Robby named him just before the accident. He had an unfortunate tendency to snap at the weaker dogs, and at Robby, for that matter. He’s a bit more even-tempered now that he’s older and neutered.”

“I don’t remember Robby being interested in the hounds.”

“Darth stood out from the crowd, I guess.”

Christian fondled Darth’s ears. “We know his weakness. What’s his strength?”

“He has more drive per pound than any dog in the pack, and a voice that can be heard all the way to Leesburg.”

“He’s a good-looking guy.” Darth had all the physical characteristics a breeder looked for. A neck long enough for him to easily lower his head to the ground to follow a fox’s line. Feet and legs designed to cover a multitude of miles, a deep chest and widespread ribs that provided plenty of room for his heart and lungs.

“And who’s this?” In the “ladies” room Christian turned to a bitch with a lolling tongue.

“That’s Lizzie. She could find a needle in a haystack.”

“As long as she can find a fox.” Christian tried to imagine himself controlling this pack. Each animal was an individual with unique talents. Some dogs led, some followed. Some dogs caught every scent but lost interest quickly, while others were tenacious to a fault. For the first time he felt a brief stab of enthusiasm for his new job.

Peter started through the kennel to the yard beyond. “Let’s find Clover and Balsam.”

The younger dogs had their own quarters. Christian had spent only a moment or two here earlier in the day. The confines of the smaller kennel had reminded him too sharply of his cell. This second trip was going better.

In the puppy house, which was similar to the larger quarters, Peter introduced Christian to Balsam, a long-bodied male who growled when Christian approached.

“Not real sociable,” Christian said, wiggling his fingers in the dog’s direction until Balsam finally sniffed them and gave Christian a tentative canine okay.

“Something must have happened to him before he came to us,” Peter said. “I hope we can overcome it. I’d hoped to breed him.”