Dreams for Stones (14 page)

“You have cows?”

“Not here. The old ranch. A long time
ago.”

“What happened? To the calf?”

“Oh, we castrated him, branded him, turned
him loose.” He held up a sandwich. “We have ham and turkey. Which
do you prefer? Or would you rather share?”

“Sharing works for me.”

It was a mark in his favor that he was
willing to share. It wasn’t a characteristic she’d encountered in
many men.

Funny, though, that quick change of subject
from his finger. She wondered if he’d done it on purpose, but
decided that made no sense.

When they finished eating, Alan walked over
to Sonoro and returned carrying a fishing rod and a small plastic
box. She raised her brows in question.

“Thought if you’ve never seen a trout up
close and personal, I’d show you one.”

After he assembled the rod he led her along
the stream until they reached a spot where it widened, forming a
small pool. There he dropped to one knee, looking at the water.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking for fish. And see those flies?” He
pointed to a bunch of dry grasses hanging over the edge of the
stream that had a halo of insects circling their bent tips. “I’m
trying to figure out what to use, and they give me a clue.” He
opened the plastic box and selected a gray and brown tuft.

“But that doesn’t look anything like those
bugs.”

He glanced up at her raising an admonitory
eyebrow. “You mean flies. And it may not look the same to you, but
it will to the trout.”

“So it’s all a matter of having a fishy
perspective.”

“Are you calling the trout’s viewpoint
dubious?” His eyes were amused.

A laugh tickled her throat. “Indubitably
fishy.”

He chuckled as he tied the tiny gray
tuft—not a bug, a
fly
—to the end of his line. While he did
that, Kathy watched his hands, long-fingered and capable in spite
of the bent finger. Panting, Cormac came over and flopped down next
to her, and she patted him.

“Come here, let me show you.” Alan held the
rod, demonstrating the proper movements, then placed it in her
hands.

She attempted a cast, but it was too
tentative, and the fly landed at the edge of the stream near her
feet. Alan moved behind her and, placing his hands over hers, once
again demonstrated the proper motions.

He stepped away, and she tried another cast,
still feeling the imprint of his hands on hers. This time the fly
almost caught in the rocks lining the far shore. The third time,
though, she began to get the idea, and the fly landed with a small
plop in the middle of the pool. She was wondering what to do next
when it disappeared, leaving behind a patch of ruffled water.

As the rod tip bent sharply, Alan stepped
closer and placed his hand over hers lifting the tip of the rod.
“There, the hook’s set. Now keep enough tension so you can feel
him, but don’t try to overpower him. Slow and easy is better.”

The fish partially surfaced looking much too
large to be held by the tiny hook and its gossamer lead. But as she
focused on Alan’s directions and the tug of the trout on the line,
she forgot everything else. When the fish moved away, Alan told her
to let out line. When the fish turned toward her, she retrieved
line, only to have the trout dance away yet again, as if the two of
them were involved in a delicate minuet.

Then, with a suddenness that surprised her,
it ended, and Alan was bending down, reaching into the water. “Come
take a look.”

Reluctantly, she bent over the fish. Cormac
came trotting over as well, but at a word from Alan, sat quietly.
The fish, beautiful and sleek, fluttered its gills as if panting
from its efforts. She looked away while Alan removed the hook.

“See the white edges on his fins? He’s a
brookie.”

“Brookie?”

“Brook trout. Here, you can touch him if you
want. He needs to rest a minute before I turn him loose.”

“You’re not keeping him?” A relief. She
didn’t want to see, or hear, him kill the fish.

“Nope.” Alan took her hand, dipped it into
the water before he guided it gently over the satin flank of the
fish. “Feel that?”

The fish felt as soft and smooth as the old
velvet of the dress Amanda had insisted Kathy buy.

“They have a mucous covering that protects
them. Always wet your hand before you touch one.”

‘“Glory be to God for dappled things—’”
Kathy spoke softly. ‘“For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim.’” She paused,
looking at the fish, at its speckled side with its faint rosy glow.
“You know, I’ve always loved that poem, but I never understood that
last line until now.”

Alan moved the fish gently back and forth in
the water before loosing his hold on it. The fish lay motionless
for a moment before moving away, gathering speed as it realized it
was free.

Kathy watched the swirl of water behind the
fish, but she was thinking about Alan’s reaction to the poem. For
an instant, his face had held a look of such anguish, she began to
reach out to touch him, to ask what was wrong. But then he’d
shifted, his face had smoothed out, and her hand had stilled.

The spell cast by the trout and the poem
lingered, but for only a moment before Alan stood and helped her
up. “You ready for dessert?”

She set aside his odd reaction for later
reflection. “There can’t be any more food in those saddlebags.”

“We could stay out a week.” He gathered up
the fishing equipment, and they walked back to the horses. When he
re-stowed the rod, he took a small tin out of the saddlebag and
offered her a cookie. Sitting in the early spring sun, her stomach
full and her body pleasantly tired, she yawned.

“You sleepy?”

She nodded. “I better get up and move
around.”

“I have a better idea. Stay there.”

She watched as he pulled the saddle off
Siesta, brought it over, and set it down near her.

“What are you going to do?”

“Same thing.”

He unsaddled Sonoro, placed the saddle on
the opposite side of the blanket and lay down. After a moment, she
lay down as well. The chitter of a squirrel and the chuckle of the
stream wove together with Alan’s quiet breathing.

Into that peace, the memory of the look on
his face when she’d recited the poem intruded. It wasn’t the first
time she’d sensed a melancholy in him. Grace had seen it as well
and labeled it loneliness. But that seemed unlikely to Kathy. After
all, the stories he told about his students indicated he was a
popular and well-liked professor, and he had his family and
friends.

Maybe, like her, he was recovering from a
failed relationship. He’d never mentioned anyone, but she’d not
told him about Greg, either. And that was odd, come to think of it.
That given all the time they’d spent together this winter, that
their conversations continued to be. . . well, almost impersonal,
really.

In some ways it was a relief. To spend time
with someone who simply let her be. For sure, she had no interest
in revisiting her engagement.

But shouldn’t the pain of a failed
relationship have faded by now? Certainly hers had. And yet there
was no denying that something had stilled his body and stretched
the skin of his face into that fleeting mask of agony today.

How he must have loved her.

If that was what it was.

And even if it wasn’t the case, how much
longer could the two of them continue the way they were, spending
time together, but without sharing more of themselves. And what did
that say about her that she preferred this partial connection to
her relationship with Greg?

Greg, an open book. Early reader level. Not
a deep thought to be found. Had they stayed together, likely she
would have been bored inside a year. But Alan. He had a supple,
curious mind and a quick wit that made exchanging opinions with him
fun. Unlike Greg, he even "got" her sense of humor.

A man like Alan would infuse the lives of
those around him with surprise and delight. Although Greg had
managed the surprise part, come to think of it.

So, where did she and Alan go from here? And
why did their relationship still feel distant? A distance
demonstrated clearly by their relative positions at this very
moment. He, lying propped on a saddle on the far edge of the
blanket, and she on the opposite side. Did he make sure he brought
a large blanket in case this very thing happened?

She glanced over at him. He had his hat
tipped over his face, and his breathing was deep and regular. Even
his dog seemed to know his role was to lie between Alan and anyone
who might think about trying to move closer.

Her thoughts trailed off, and her eyes
drifted shut. Breathing in the scent of sun-warmed pine, her
breaths began to match Alan’s. Slow and deep.

The next thing she knew, she was waking up,
and Alan was no longer lying propped on the other saddle.

Momentarily disoriented, she sat up, running
fingers through her hair. Then she saw man and dog walking toward
her, the sunlight glowing around them. The man lean and graceful,
his face in partial shadow. The dog dancing at his side.

Her breath caught at the sight. “You should
have awakened me.”

“You looked too peaceful to disturb.
Besides, there’s no rush.”

She looked away, her heart startled into a
quicker rhythm at the thought of him watching her sleep. But she’d
done the same to him, after all.

“I’m going to get the horses saddled. You
want privacy, that clump of bushes over there would work.” He
pointed.

It was a second before she realized what he
was suggesting. She thanked him and afterward walked over to the
stream and rinsed her hands and face with the icy water, washing
away the last vestiges of drowsiness. Then she watched Alan as,
with smooth, easy movements, he re-saddled the two horses.

Riding back, she knew that no matter how
long she lived she would never completely forget this day. A day
when she knew her recovery from her broken engagement to be
complete. The day she realized she was now ready for more than a
casual friendship with Alan Francini.

But Alan gave no indication he wanted
more.

He should have known better than to take Kathy to Meg’s special
place. But he'd thought, mistakenly, that it was the way to begin
to alter the aura of the place.

And it had seemed to be working, in the
beginning. He’d managed Kathy’s ordinary everyday questions about
the lake’s name and his finger, the one that got broken defending
Meg, with only brief glitches of pain, until she quoted the Gerard
Manley Hopkins poem.

Meg had loved that poem. The last time he
heard those words. . . a bright, warm day, very like today. His
head in Meg’s lap, his eyes closed as he savored the sound of her
voice and the images painted by the words.

Then, the poem finished, she tickled him
with a blade of grass, and he opened his eyes to see her looking
down at him.

“I’ve decided on a name for the lake.”

When he raised his eyebrows in question, she
said, “
Lago de Lágrimas
. Lake of Tears.”

“Why tears?”

She looked away, a small frown creasing her
brow. “I think. . . ”

“What?”

“That’s supposed to be its name. You know,
like naming a foal, or a dog or. . . I suppose, a child. If you
wait awhile, you just know what the name should be, and after that
nothing else will quite do.”

Then she’d smiled and kissed him, and there
had been neither tears, nor talking, for a time.

In loving Meg there had been no doubts, no
shadows, only joy. They were each other’s safe harbors. Best
friends. Lovers. Soul mates. How many of those do you get in one
lifetime?

Still, he’d had high hopes when he and Kathy
started out this morning. But when she'd quoted the poem, the dark
memories had swirled around him, erasing the sunny day. Thank God
she hadn’t noticed. Thank God she'd agreed to the nap.

He had lain there, beside her but carefully
separate, breathing slowly and deeply until he could tell she'd
fallen asleep. Then he stood and, careful not to disturb her, had
looked down at her. She looked peaceful and sweet, and his heart
clenched with pain because she wasn’t Meg.

Everyone told him it took time. That
eventually he’d feel better. Not that he’d ever forget Meg, but
that it would gradually get easier, until someday he’d wake up and
realize his memories had lost their sharp edge of sorrow.

There was a time when he didn’t believe
it.

But these last months—sharing them with
Kathy, Grace, and Delia—they had been easier somehow.

Until today, which reinforced what he
already knew.

He couldn’t let anyone get too close or
matter too much.

“You’ve been mighty pensive the last two days.” Jade looked across
at Kathy who was picking green peppers off a piece of pizza. “You
know, we could always order it without the peppers.”

“You like them, and I don’t mind,” Kathy
said.

“What gives?”

“Alan.”

“Hmm. Thought so. Has something
happened?”

“We went on a picnic Saturday. It was. . . ”
Kathy propped her head on her hand, remembering. “We caught a
trout.”

“The former cold fish gives you a fish.”
Jade grinned at her. “There has to be something deeply meaningful
in that, but beats me what it is.”

“Does anyone have a clue what they’re doing
when they fall in love?” Kathy passed the last piece of green
pepper over to Jade.

“Stop. That’s quite a leap you just took. Do
you think you’re falling in love with him?”

“It’s just. Well. I like him. Rather a lot,
actually. And Amanda is definitely smitten.”

Jade grinned, shaking her head. “Amanda,
huh. And what about Kathy?”