27. Bonnie
BONNIE
The prospective client calls my program a Redfern expansion before he has even met Mercy.
“It makes sense,” he says. “Gage up here, you building the Colorado side. Are you combining the bookings after Christmas?”
I am standing by the arena gate with a lesson folder under my arm. Three days ago I took my husband to bed. Apparently somebody saw us having dinner in town and made a business plan from the photograph they took on their phone.
“My bookings stay with me,” I say.
“Of course. I meant the brand.”
“So did I.”
He looks embarrassed. I soften my voice because he has come to ask about his daughter’s horse and has no reason to know every place the assumption hurts.
“Gage has his own work. I’m teaching here under my own name. Cleo owns the facility.”
“Right. Sorry.”
We talk about the horse. He tells me what his daughter hopes to do and what she is struggling with. I ask to see her ride before promising anything. By the time he leaves, the conversation has become useful, and I have not lost a client by telling him who I am.
Gage arrives while I am putting the folder away. He has Cricket in her carrier after their afternoon together. She is awake, making sounds at the hanging toy. I crouch beside her and tell her I missed her.
“Did she have a good time?” I ask.
“She watched me fold laundry. Very critical.”
“You put the sleeves inside themselves.”
“She probably learned it from you.”
I stand and kiss him. The pleasure of it is immediate, and I am glad.
“Can we talk after I feed her?” I ask.
“Sure.”
He carries the bag inside and makes tea while I feed her on the sofa. I tell him about the client without building a speech first.
“He thought we were combining the programs.”
Gage sets down the kettle. “Because I moved?”
“Because you moved, because he saw a picture of us, because people assume your work is the big thing and mine fits inside it.”
He sits beside the table. “I haven’t told anyone that.”
“I know. I’m telling you what happened.”
He starts to answer, then stops. I wait, watching the steam rise from the cups.
“What did you say?” he asks.
I tell him.
“That’s right.”
“It has to stay right when somebody asks you.”
“It will.”
I look down at Cricket. Her little fist rests against my shirt. She is almost five months old, and I can feed her now without thinking through every part of the task. I have learned so much in this room that nobody at the ranch watched happen.
“I loved the other night,” I say.
Gage looks at me.
“I’m not taking it back. I won’t waste today pretending I regret being happy with you.”
He leaves the chair by the table and sits where I make room beside me.
“I loved it too.”
“I still want my work.”
“I want you to have it.”
“Then if somebody asks why I’m not at your event, tell them I’m at mine. Don’t say I couldn’t make it.”
He nods. “You’re working.”
“Even when you wish I was with you.”
“I can wish you were there without making your work sound like an excuse.” He reaches for his tea, then puts it down after a sip. Too hot. “When’s your next clinic? I can have Cricket if I’m here.”
I tell him the date. I take his hand after Cricket finishes feeding. We sit together while she studies him from my lap.
Later, Cleo comes over to ask whether I can switch arena times next week. We work it out while Gage walks Cricket. Cleo addresses the question to me. Gage keeps walking.
When she leaves, he asks if I want to come to his place for dinner on Christmas Eve. He has spoken to me already about the baby’s day; this invitation is for me.
“What are you cooking?”
“Something that doesn’t involve the broiler.”
I tell him yes. Then I ask if he will stay for a while tonight.
He does. We eat toast because neither of us wants to cook, and I describe the girl whose horse I may take for lessons. He asks what I liked about her father’s description, and I have to think before answering.
By the time he leaves, I have a better idea of what to ask at their first visit. I also have his kiss on my mouth and a plan for tomorrow.
On the first Wednesday in January, I come home to find Gage on the cottage floor with Cricket and a basket of clean laundry.
Cleo let him in when he brought our daughter back. She had a boarder arriving, and I was running late after a lesson. I can hear her voice out by the barn as I close the door.
“You didn’t have to fold that,” I say.
“I needed somewhere to put my coat.”
“It could’ve stayed on the chair.”
“So could I. She had other ideas.”
Cricket is on the blanket beside him. He has put a clean cloth over his head. When he pulls it away she makes a delighted sound that sends him straight back beneath it.
I lean against the door and watch them for longer than I need to.
The cloth catches on his ear. He leaves it there while Cricket tries to decide whether that is part of the game, then turns to me with it hanging down one side of his face.
“Do you think she knows I look ridiculous?”
“She’s your daughter. I’d assume so.”
I take off my coat and sit beside them. Cricket catches my fingers and tries to bring them to her mouth. I kiss her, then Gage, who has finally removed the cloth.
He puts it on the pile of things to wash again.
“How was the lesson?”
“Cold. Useful. Cold.”
He takes my hand briefly between his warm ones. I could stay on the floor until my legs seize up, listening to our daughter enjoy herself. Instead I get up to put the kettle on because I am hungry and the lesson has left arena dust inside my collar.
Gage follows with Cricket. We talk while I make a sandwich. He holds her where she can see what I am doing. She watches the bread with an interest neither of us gets for conversation.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “Your mother’s extremely dull.”
“Put the cloth on your head.”
“I’m eating.”
“Worked for me.”
I laugh, and Cricket looks up at the sound. For a moment all three of us are pleased by the same small thing. I have to look down at the plate because I want this so much.
Gage asks whether I want him to stay while I shower. I say yes at once. The offer does not get a chance to become difficult. I finish eating, wash the dust off and put on a clean shirt. When I come back, he has changed Cricket and put the wet towel I abandoned over the radiator where it can dry.
“Better?” he asks.
“Much.”
I take our daughter. She tucks her head under my chin, and he looks at the clock above the kitchen door.
“I need to get over to the barn. I told them I’d be there before the evening feed.”
“All right.”
He has work to do. I have work to finish too, although I will probably look at the lesson notes for ten minutes and then put them away. I have been thinking of the evening as something we might share without ever asking whether he could.
Gage puts on his coat. Cricket follows the movement, lifting her head from my shoulder. When he comes to kiss her goodbye, she reaches toward his collar with both hands.
He stops.
“Have you got something to say?”
She catches the fabric and makes an impatient little sound. He loosens it from her fingers carefully. She reaches again, leaning far enough that I adjust my hold.
“She wants you,” I say.
I did not expect the words to feel this strange. For months I have been the person she wanted when someone else held her. I am glad she knows him. I am surprised by the tiny, unreasonable hurt of being the one she is reaching away from.
Gage looks at me before taking her. I pass her over, and she settles against the coat as though this was all she needed us to understand.
He laughs. “There you are.”
I watch his face. He is trying not to make too much of it and failing completely. He kisses the top of her head, then holds her away just enough to look at her.
“You picked a bad time. I’ve got horses waiting.”
She catches his chin.
He stays for another few minutes. I sit on the arm of the sofa while he tells her what he has to do at the barn, leaving out nothing except the parts she might understand. I laugh at him explaining a training schedule to somebody who is occupied with his zipper.
Then I stop laughing, because I want him to come back afterward.
I’m not thinking of a date, or of finding someone to keep Cricket while we go out.
I want him back here after work, eating dinner with us.
For an instant I see that room off the hotel lobby again.
Then he looks at me over our daughter’s head, waiting to hear what I want.
He has come when I’ve asked him. I can ask him now.
“What?” he asks.
“I was going to ask if you wanted dinner.”
“Tonight?”
“After the horses.”
He looks at the clock again. I hate how quickly I prepare to say it does not matter.
“I can be back by seven,” he says. “Is that too late?”
He is making room for the horses and for me in the same sentence. My hands unclench around Cricket.
“No.”
“What should I bring?”
“Yourself. There’s food.”
He smiles at me, and the relief is almost embarrassing. I want to tell him how hard the small invitation was. I enjoy his answer first.
When I take Cricket back, she objects for a few seconds. I hold her against me and walk to the window where she can see the yard. Gage kisses my cheek before he leaves. She watches him go with interest, then discovers the seam on my shirt and forgets the truck.
I keep watching until it turns out of the lane.
At seven, he knocks with a loaf of bread beneath his arm. I open the door already smiling. Cricket is in my arms, awake after a short nap. She recognizes his voice and lifts her head.
“I bought the kind we don’t have to put under a broiler,” he says.
I take the bread. He takes his daughter. I stand close enough to kiss him, so I do.
Dinner needs another ten minutes. I tell him that, and he says he has time.