A Gentle Rain (39 page)

After the third time, we spooned on the sweat-soaked bed of the dark motel room. We could hear the surf and see the stars through an open window. "Stars over the ocean," she whispered as my fingers explored her. "How lovely. I feel so at home." Her back flexed against my chest. We tried to He still, but we couldn't.

After the fourth time, we slept a little, half-wakin' to touch and kiss. The only words we spoke were instructions and praises.

After the fifth time we fell sound asleep, tangled up in each other with her still half on top of me.

No need to talk about what it all meant. She didn't ask me if I loved her, but she had to know. Women feel those answers. They have intuitions. Right?

I can only say it this way: She made me feel like I was the king of the world, that anything was possible, and that, as long as we were together, Joey, the ranch, and every dream I'd ever loved would live forever.

Kara

He was everything. He was the most, the best, the sweetest, the most tender, the most amazing. He made me feel like the most irresistible woman who ever lived. We didn't talk about the wondrous world we created between us in bed. Too delicate. Too easy to break. Best left undiscussed.

The next morning we showered, dressed, and climbed back into Phil's seaplane with an unspoken understanding. The sexual genie was out of the bottle. We would deal with that genie privately, giving in whenever resistance became futile, without discussing the future.

"We'll stop by Orlando on the way home," Ben said.

I smiled. I liked the way he said "we," and "home."

I know that's foolish. Men don't necessarily care about the future. And women should not confuse sexual compatibility with love. Yes, yes, Mother, I hear your lectures on the cool preservation of sexual independence. Yes, Dad, I remember your elegant advice on the vagaries of men.

But now I heard Mac and Lily's voices, too.

Love. Trust. Believe.

Sometimes, our parents' lessons are shared waters from the same sweet fountain.

"Is this entry application a joke?" an overly Botoxed woman asked Ben and me in the executive office suites of The Groves. According to a sign on her desk, her official title was "Special Event Coordinator for J.T. Jackson Development."

It should have been Mistress Of Excessively T ght Sphincters. "I repeat, is this a joke?" the woman asked. "And who told you that you could land your ... your flying pontoon boat ... on the golf course's water hazard?"

Ben looked at me. "I'm gonna let you answer that. You got a way with words."

I smiled. "Our application for the Ride-Offis not a joke," I said to the woman, "except perhaps to someone who considers mauve Italian marble the height of sophistication."

Her eyes shot darts at me. The offices of J.T. Jackson Development were entirely done in mauve marble. She pointed to a World Sports Network poster advertising the barrel-racing event. "This is a pay-per-view cable broadcast sports competition for professional barrel racers. Meaning it's for world class barrel racing horses and riders. Not for"-she squinted at our entry form-"just anyone."

Ben said in a low voice, "Ma'am, our mare is from native stock, a breed older than any breed of horse from here to California. And this rider"-he pointed at me-"can hold her own against any pro worth a prize buckle."

Mistress Sphincter continued to stare at our application. "Wait a minute. Thocco? You're Ben Thocco?"

"The one and only."

She punched a button on her phone. "Security, please." Then another button. "Mr. Jackson's office, please."

Ben frowned. "If you're about to kick us out, ma'am-"

"You won't be kicked out. Just escorted."

"Then our next stop will be the Jacksonville Florida TimesUnion," I said calmly. "And then the local television stations. Also CNN and other cable news networks. And then we'll stop by our lawyer's office to plan how best to sue World Sports Network and J.T. Jackson Development for unfairly excluding us. Then, we'll start contacting all the corporate sponsors of the Ride-Off, and, of course, the governor's office, our U.S. Senators, local congressmen and congresswomen, and oh, yes, officials of the major barrel-racing associations, and the breeders' association for Cracker horses-in short, we'll make certain a lot of people know that a valid application for this event was rejected because of Mr. Jackson's personal vendetta based on conflicts arising from his and his daughter's refusal to obey the law regarding handicapped parking spaces, and his bigotry toward a Native American ranch owner, also his rank disrespect for an indigenous breed of horse, and his total disregard for fairness and sportsmanship, with just the right dollop of elitist disdain for working-class people-and horses-everywhere."

She stared at me. "Calm down."

Ben shook his head with melodramatic style. "Ma'am, for her, this is calm."

"I'll present your application to the event committee. That's all I'll promise you."

"Good enough."

"But I'll need a certified check for the entry fee. Nothing less."

Ben laid a check on her desk. "Here you go."

Security men arrived at that point. They were none too happy with the seaplane sitting on the golf course's lake.

We took our receipt and left. By the time we-and our security escorts-got back to the plane, about a hundred people had gathered on the balcony of the course's imposing and pretentiously grand club house, which overlooked the lake beside the eighteenth hole, where the seaplane was moored to the pilings of a lakeside gazebo.

Suddenly a golf cart came flying across the manicured grass. It jerked to a halt. J.T. Jackson barreled out, yelling at us. No need to report the lurid details. Let me just say that the language was vile, the intent quite hostile, and the basic message supremely simple.

We would never be allowed to sully his promotional event. Us or the horse we intended to ride in on. Et cetera.

His screaming fit was foul and yet strangely entertaining. Even the spectators in his own clubhouse began laughing.

"Did you get all that, darlin'?" Ben asked.

"Most of it." I closed my cell phone. "Enough to share with the media."

We grinned at each other, got back in the seaplane, and left in winged style.

The afterglow of giddy, incredible sex wipes out all other concerns. It is a sweet drug, filled with life and intimacy and hope. We reveled in it.

Chapter 22

Kara

"What happened between you and Ben down in the Keys?" Miriam asked. I rode Estrela around the ring in the late-afternoon, hundred-degree shade. She rested her jowly chin on her red-nailed hands. "And don't pretend it wasn't something."

"We bested Cap'n LaRoi."

"Hah. You bested each other."

"It was something, yes."

"You love him."

"Yes."

"He loves you."

"He loves women."

"He loves you."

"He hasn't made any overtures about the future."

'What are you, blind? He's made more overtures than the National Enquirer waitin' for Brittany Spears to go back into rehab."

The future. I was trying to think about one day at a time. Events were unfolding at a pace that made autumn-and my promise to Sedge that I would leave the ranch in time to represent Mother and Dad at the Nobel ceremony-seem far too close.

"We're in the papers," Lily yelled. She limped hurriedly to the ring, waving the Jacksonville Florida Times-Union. "We're in the papers!" The rest of the crew trailed her, yelling and waving copies of the paper, too. She couldn't move fast enough so Mac picked her up and carried her. Bigfoot pushed Joey's wheelchair and Mr. Darcy squawked excitedly atop Joey's shoulder. Roy, Dale, Cheech and even Possum were nearly dancing.

I guided Estrela to the fence as Miriam grabbed the newspaper and perused it avidly. "I'll be damned.' She held up the sports page. The headline said: Million Dollar Barrel Race Challenge Shocker! Beneath that: Amateur rider and homegrown 'Cracker' maregets the nod to compete against the top pros.

Lily looked up at me with glowing eyes as she stroked Estrela's muzzle. "I knew you'd make it. See, you're not dumb, you're not stupid. You're just different."

"We're gonna win!" Joey said, gasping for air. Lula reached over and turned up his oxygen. "Because Estrela is special, like us!"

Ben walked up behind everyone. He met my somber eyes.

So much was at stake.

Ben

"You want to meet me where we can be alone for an hour this afternoon? I got a cabin on a little pond at the far end of the marsh."

"Yes," Karen said.

"It ain't fancy."

"Who needs fancy?"

I'd done some quick work on the love shack. I didn't want it to be the same place where I'd always taken my women. I'd painted the plank walls a fresh shade of white, and I'd replaced the mattress with a new king set sportin' all-new sheets, pillows, the works.

When Karen got there I already had the room fan running in the screened window and a vase full of daisies atop the cabin's only nicety-a little refrigerator full of wine, chocolate, and bottled water.

"The chocolate's free-range," I told her.

She ate some chocolate then sipped white wine from a frosty Mason jar.

We circled each other, sweating in the afternoon heat, cool in the fan's breeze, steeped like hot tea in the shadows.

"Say it," I ordered. "What you said in the Keys. The way you put it, that 1 liked so much."

"I'd like for you to take unlawful carnal knowledge of me. Or, to use the acronym ..."

That was as far as she got.

We went to bed.

"Do you believe in eternity?" Karen asked. We sat naked on the cabin's front porch, looking at the lake. I'd set the fan on us, to keep the bugs away. The air felt good. On the lake's far side, a mama panther, black as ink, lazed with her two black cubs.

"Painters," Karen whispered.

Godawmighty. What a joy, to see rare Florida wildcats in the modern world, the wildest of the wild, endangered and nearly killed off, but here they were, prospering and peaceful. With me and Karen watchin' them, together.

"Do you?" she whispered. "Believe in eternity?"

"I want to. And I hope it's like this."

She held my hand. "Me too."

Suddenly everybody wanted to know about Karen and Estrela. The next thing we knew, a herd of reporters showed up along with our oval personal publicity wrangler, assigned by World Sports Network.

Would Karen let them do her hair and make-up and pose her in a bikini?

No.

How about snug jeans and a skinny tank top?

No.

Shorts?

No.

At all?

No.

"You are in violation ofyour contractual agreement to do promotions for this event," the publicity wrangler huffed.

"You are in violation of my good taste," Karen said back. "I will pose for pictures one way and one way, only. In my normal clothes, and alongside the people who really deserve the attention. The people who rescued Estrela from the auction block and who believe in her-and me-with utter and indefatigable devotion."