Chapter Five
It took me a long time to get to sleep Sunday night. For some reason my brain was hung up on Rodrigo. I played over scenes in my mind: him with his grandchildren, his laughter, the moment with the horses that seemed more meaningful to me than it probably was.
Interspersed with those scenes were Trixie Lynn’s glares. She clearly had her intentions set on being Rodrigo’s next wife. She acted like the lady of the manor, making sure all the guests—except us—were comfortable, and chatting with everyone, a large smile on her face.
The hostess with the mostest.
But it wasn’t clear to me how Rodrigo felt about her. Was he playing along with her game because he was clueless? Or was he using her?
I didn’t like what it said about his character if the latter were true.
When I finally fell asleep, other scenes filled my dreams.
I had a vision of myself, covered with veils and jewels and little else, riding Star across the desert, trying to outrun a dust storm like Viggo Mortensen had done in Hidalgo .
I loved Viggo Mortensen. He could share my bed any day.
As long as he didn’t become too real. Fantasy men were just fine. Reality was a different story.
The image of the ride repeated itself several times during the night. One of the things I liked best about it was that somehow my body had transformed into something that looked more like Sophia Loren and less like Kathy Bates.
Then the bathroom dreams began. At first they were the bathroom nightmares I’d lived with on a daily basis after I had kids. All four of us had shared one bathroom. My daughter, Megan, had gotten worse as she’d gotten older—make-up, long hair, and hair clips scattered everywhere, along with the occasional intimate apparel that freaked out her brother if he saw it.
Patrick had been the neatest of the lot, but he still left the toothpaste uncapped.
And my husband? It was up to me to put the toilet seat down as far as he was concerned. That’s what he’d married me for—to make sure the house was clean and dinner on the table at the appropriate time.
There’d been a few moments of dreamless sleep before the nightmare morphed into nicer visions.
Rodrigo had three good-sized bathrooms, and a housekeeper.
Two of the bathrooms had big tubs, one with jets. Plenty of room, heated floors, and gleaming porcelain fixtures.
If I got the man, I got the bathrooms, my subconscious informed me.
But I couldn’t hang out with someone just because he had beautiful bathrooms.
Or horses.
By the time I awoke the next morning, I knew all those fantasies were going to stay exactly that. Once this trip was done, I was moving into Liz’s house—which had a very nice bathroom—and living all by myself.
It was just what I needed.
~ ~ ~
“I’m off to do some painting,” Liz announced the next morning.
“Are you going to be gone all day?” I asked.
“As far as I know,” she said. “I’ve scheduled the car for today. I’ll stop and get groceries on the way back. I’ll make something simple tonight. We ate a lot yesterday.”
“But it was so good,” Diane said.
“I’ve never had barbecue that wonderful,” I said.
“Well, marry the rancher and you’ll have all you want of it to eat,” Liz said.
“And the waistline that goes with it,” Diane said.
“I’ll put a hex on both of you,” I warned.
“That only worked when we were kids,” Liz said.
I’d teased both her and Diane when we were younger, telling them I had the evil eye inherited from one of our Irish ancestors. I’d “hex” them and tell them bad things were going to happen.
Then I’d engineer a few events to make them believe. The problem was, sometimes bad things happened that I hadn’t created. Those events frightened me enough to make me stop.
“There’s no need for hexes,” Diane said, her voice a little nervous. “I’m sure Trixie Lynn won’t let you anywhere near her chosen man. ”
We laughed.
“Just remember,” I said. “Unlike you two and your new romances, I have no intention of getting involved with anyone ever again. Michael’s barely in his grave. I don’t understand why you think I need any one.”
“Because you were so unhappy with Michael,” Liz said, all teasing dropping from her voice.
“Michael and I were fine.” It was over. There was no reason to talk to my sisters about anything that had gone on between me and my late husband.
Liz shook her head. “No. You were miserable. Part of it was because he needed to be in charge, for his own ego. He never acknowledged how smart and resourceful you are.”
“We were fine,” I repeated. I didn’t need my marriage analyzed. It was over. As dead as Michael in his grave.
“No you weren’t,” Diane said. “Even I could see that in the short time I was there.”
I started to sputter, and she raised her hand.
“You don’t have to say anything. But I think …” She glanced at Liz. “I think we’d both like you to be open. Something … or someone … else could come along that would give you more happiness than you’ve ever allowed yourself to have.”
I had to look away. I didn’t want to think too deeply about what Diane had said. I was the one who held it together when things were unraveling. I never showed anyone how I felt. It was too dangerous. Life could be navigated with a little sarcasm, a good dose of prayer to the right saint, and a lot of duct tape.
“I’m fine,” I repeated. I took a deep breath and looked at Diane. “What are your plans for the day?”
“I’ve got work. Then I’m going to take the scooter and take some pictures.”
Good. That put the two of them out of the way so I wouldn’t have to deal with questions about my marriage or speculation on what could occur with Rodrigo.
Because nothing could occur with Rodrigo, no matter how many clean bathrooms he had.
~ ~ ~
By the time Diane left it was after lunch, and I’d run out of things to do. I tried to read, but even that had failed to hold my interest for long. I was used to being active, having chores and errands to do. With this trip, we’d rarely stayed in one place long. The exceptions had been the month in Yellowstone and another in upstate New York.
During those stays my sisters had hooked up with men from their pasts.
Good thing it couldn’t happen to me. My past was literally dead.
Restlessness put me in mind of Star. It would be nice to spend some time riding her to see if she was as beautiful a horse as she looked.
Riding the range with Rodrigo wouldn’t be bad either. I was eager to learn more about his operation. We’d barely scratched the surface of our ranching discussion.
But that meant being in closer contact with him. Making small talk at church would be fine. Anything more was running into dangerous territory.
As I refilled my water glass for the fifth time, I realized I needed to do something .
Pulling my loom out from its storage place, I went outside, hoping the constant movement of the shuttle from one side to the other would soothe my nerves
The next gray Celtic knot began to emerge as I steadily worked. There were only two colors, but the setup had taken hours, and I needed to take care to ensure the threads were parted accurately. The pattern was unforgiving. A mistake would show.
“That’s beautiful,” a woman said.
I looked up, startled. I’d been so engrossed in the detail I hadn’t heard her arrive.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Have you been weaving long?”
“Several years. I took it up once my children left home.”
“I’ve never had the courage for weaving. It seems too exact. I knit and spin. They’re more forgiving.” She held out her hand. “I’m Genna.”
“Kathleen.” I shook it. “You spin? That’s always seemed a mystery to me. All that fluff becoming a strand that is strong enough to make clothing.”
“It is pretty miraculous. But so is that. All those threads becoming that beautiful pattern.”
“I suppose it is.”
“Well, I’ll see you.” Genna took a few steps toward the road before turning back. “You’re the only one I’ve seen doing fiber arts. Would you mind … um … could I get my spinning wheel and come back? I don’t talk much, but it would be nice to work with someone. Back home—in Colorado—we have a fiber arts guild. We spend an afternoon a week working together. I miss it.”
I was tempted to say no. I’d met enough people at the barbecue to last me a bit. But then I saw the longing in her eyes. “Sure. Why not?”
Her face bloomed with joy.
“Great! I’ll be right back.”
Soon she was set up next to me, a strangely-shaped spinning wheel in front of her. I watched for a bit as her hands and fingers took a hunk of chestnut colored fiber and held it just so to create an even thin thread of yarn.
It was indeed magic.
I went back to my loom.
True to her word, Genna didn’t say much, and I began to relax.
Soon the rhythm of what we were doing threaded together. Unwritten music surrounded us, as did the ghosts of all the people who’d participated in the past and present of fiber arts. Mongolian men wove camel hair on spindle looms. Women in lonely farmhouses worked on large looms to produce clothing for their family.
It was an art as old as the human desire for warmth and personal decoration.
When we parted a few hours later, I’d made a new friend.
I’d just put the loom away when I received a call.
“Hello?” It was Rodrigo’s voice.
“Hello,” I said.
“Oh, good,” he said. “I’m glad to get you. I realized we didn’t make a plan to go riding.”
“No, we didn’t,” I said, not offering anything more.
“What are you doing this week? Are there any free days?”
I walked to the car schedule we kept. “I’m not sure,” I lied.
“You must be a busy lady,” he said. “Perhaps some other day soon? I’d like to talk to you more about how you ranch in Montana. Maybe I could learn something.”
“I doubt it,” I said. He seemed to be doing just fine.
“You can always learn something,” he said. “Surely there must be some day you have free.”
“Can I get back to you on that? My sisters aren’t here at the moment. I’m not sure what they have planned. We only have one car, and we need to schedule its use.”
“Of course. ”
We chatted a few more moments, then hung up with my promise to get back in touch.
It sounded lovely. It would be something to do.
We could be friends, couldn’t we? I’d put up good boundaries, enjoy the ride, then walk away when we were done.
Just to make sure, I’d say a little prayer. It was too insignificant a matter for Mary or any of the members of the Trinity, so I sent up a quick prayer to the first saint I thought of: St. Jude. Head bowed, I asked for the support I needed to make sure Rodrigo and I remained just friends.
It never occurred to me I was praying to the wrong saint.