Season of Passion (10 page)

How come they don't ever get vacation? He was slurping through his cereal now, and Kate's thoughts had already drifted ahead to Tom.

Hm?

How come they don't get vacation?

They just don't. Want to bring Joey home from school today? Tillie will be here when you get back. But she didn't need to tell him. He knew that. She could drive you guys over to see the new horses down at the Adams ranch, if you want.

Nah.

No? Kate looked at him with astonishment, as he plowed on through the cereal with a blas+! look on his face, but that same bright little flame in his eyes. He was up to something. What's with you? Other plans?

He looked up with a quick smile and a faint blush, but a vehement shake of his head. No.

Listen, you, be a good boy for Tillie today. Promise? Tillie had the phone number at Mead, but Kate was on the road so much of the time that she still worried a little, even after all these years. Don't do anything wild or crazy while I'm gone. I mean it, Tygue. The voice was suddenly stern, and his eyes met hers with a promise.

It's okay, Mom. As though he were a thousand years old. And then suddenly the staccato honking of his car pool, and she could see the big yellow Jeep in the driveway.

They're here!

Gotta go. See ya! The spoon flew, a last grab at the toast, his favorite cowboy hat, a stray book on the table, a wave as she blew him a kiss, and he was gone. As she took another swallow of coffee, she couldn't help wondering what he was up to, but whatever it was, Tillie could handle it. She was a large, grandmotherly, affectionate woman, but she had been a widow for too many years herself to take any nonsense from Tygue. She had brought up five boys and a daughter, managed a ranch by herself for years before finally turning it over to her eldest son, and she had been baby-sitting for Tygue since he was born. She was rough and ingenious, and they had a marvelous time together. She was a real country woman, not an immigrant like Kate. There was a difference, and probably always would be. Besides, Kate was a writer, not a woman of the kitchen and garden. She enjoyed the country around her but she still knew little about it

She looked around the kitchen for a minute before grabbing her jacket and handbag, wondering what she'd forgotten. She felt a strange tug this morning, as though she shouldn't be going. But she was used to that too. She no longer listened to those feelings. She just steeled herself and went Tillie was unquestionably reliable. She shrugged into the jacket and looked down at her slacks. They still fitted her as they had eight years before when she'd bought them after modeling them. They had been beautiful then and were still beautiful, a soft caramel-colored gabardine, and the jacket was a tweed she had worn riding years before. The only thing new was the pale blue sweater she'd bought in town. She smiled again as she thought of what Tygue had said about what she wore. She liked looking pretty for Tom. She almost wondered if she should make more of an effort for Tygue too. But at six? That was crazy. What did he know? Or did he? The thought of dressing up for a six-year boy made her laugh as she walked out to the car.

She put her mind into automatic pilot all the way up to Carmel, and it turned out to be one of those days when she stayed on automatic throughout the day. The road had been tedious and all too familiar, Tom was dull and listless, the day turned foggy. Even the lunch was one she'd had hundreds of times before. Some days with Tom stood out like rare gems, their facets gleaming and brightly hued, casting rainbows of dancing light. Other days were dark and cold and had the taste of ash. And some days she felt nothing at all. Today she felt nothing, except fatigue as she left. She was anxious to hit the freeway as soon as she could, and drive back to the little house in the hills, and Tygue, and the silly sad-eyed basset hound who had become a member'of the family. She had missed them all day. Maybe she should have stayed home after all. The speedometer hit well over ninety as she drove home. It often did, but she seldom got caught Only twice in six years. The trip was so boring, only shortening it by speeding made it bearable. Now and then a pang of conscience toward Tygue would make her slow down, but not often. Fifty-five was intolerable. She cruised at eighty-five most of the time.

It was almost five as she drove, still too fast, over the back roads that led to the house. Why had she had this damn uneasiness all day? She ground across the gravel on the driveway, keeping an eye out for the dog, but anxiously combing the area around the house for Tygue. And then she saw him, and smiled as she stepped on the brakes and slid into park. He was filthy and smiling and beautiful and she had been crazy to worry. What the hell was wrong with her? She made the trip all the time. What had made her think that anything would be wrong today, or that anything would come up that Tillie couldn't handle? Tillie, in fact, was looking as filthy as Tygue, and even Bert looked as though he needed a bath. The three of them were covered with mud. Tillie even had a great smudge of it on one cheek, and there was lots of it matted in Tygue's hair, but they looked delighted with themselves.

Tygue was waving frantically now and shouting something. It was time to move. To get out of the car. To be Mom again. And Tillie was peeling a pair of overalls down from her shoulders. The outfit she was wearing underneath was scarcely more elegant, and as always when returning from Carmel, Kate instantly felt overdressed. She grabbed her handbag and stepped out of the car. Her day as Tom's Kate had ended. It was Tygue's turn now. She took a deep breath of the fresh country air, and then sighed as she reached down to pat Bert, snuffling happily at the cuffs of her slacks.

Hi, guys. What've you been up to?

Wait till you see, Mom! It's terrific! I did it! I did it! Tillie didn't do nothing! Anything. To hell with it. Nothing was good enough. She was too tired to correct him, and too happy at seeing him safe and sound.

She didn't, huh? Well, guess what? She had already scooped him into her arms, mud and all, and he was squirming to be free.

Come on, Mom, you gotta come look.'

Can I have a kiss first? But she had already given him one, and was holding him close, as he looked up at her with that heart-melting smile of a boy of six.

Then will you come look?

Then I'll come look. He bestowed a perfunctory kiss and pulled ferociously at her arm. Wait a minute, what am I going to look at? Not snakes again ' right, Tillie? She cast a rapid eye in the older woman's direction. Tillie had said nothing yet. She was a woman of few words, particularly with other women; she had more to say to Tygue than to Kate.

But there was a certain warmth and respect between them. Tillie didn't really understand what Kate did at the typewriter, but the one published book she could tell her friends about had impressed her. It hadn't been much of a book, sort of a nonsense novel about fancy people in San Francisco, but it had been published, and that was something. And she said she had another one coming out in a month. Maybe she'd be famous one day. And anyway, she was a good mother. And a widow too. They had that in common. There was something different about her, though, that kept a distance between them. She wasn't a snob, and she didn't put on airs, and she didn't have anything anyone else didn't have. There was just a feeling one got about her. It was hard to explain. Refined. Maybe that was it. It was a word Tillie's mother had used. She had said Kate was refined. And smart. And pretty maybe, but too thin. And there was always that sad, hidden look in her eyes. But Tillie knew that one, she had seen it in the mirror for years after her own man had died. Not for as long as she'd seen it in Kate's eyes though. The look was still as fresh in her eyes as it had been when she'd first met her, after Tygue was born. Sometimes Tillie wondered if the writing kept her pain alive. Maybe that was what she wrote about She didn't really know.

Tillie watched now as Kate rounded the corner of the house, impatiently pulled along by her son, and then they both stopped and Tygue grinned broadly and held tightly to his mother's hand. He was still such a little boy yet now and then he seemed very grown up, probably because his mother often talked to him as though he were already a man. But that wouldn't do him any harm. Tillie had done that to her own boys, after their father died. It brought back memories, watching the boy look up at his mother in front of the patch of garden they'd worked on all day while she was gone.

We made it for you. Half of it's flowers and half of it's vegetables. Tillie said we should do vegetables so you could make salads. You know, peppers and stuff. And next week we're gonna do herbs. You like herbs? He looked suddenly dubious. Herbs sounded like girl stuff to him. I want to plant pumpkins. And coconuts. Kate grinned, and bent to kiss him again.

It's beautiful, Tygue.

No, it isn't. But it will be. We planted all kinds of flowers. We bought all the seeds last week. And I hid them. That was what that look of mystery had been about this morning. It was his first garden.

He did all the hard work too. Tillie walked up to him and patted his shoulder. He's going to be mighty proud when he sees what a fine garden he planted too. Won't be long.

Tomatoes too.

For a moment, Kate felt herself fighting tears, and then suddenly she wanted to laugh. She had worried about him all day, and he had been planting her a garden. What a beautiful world it was. No matter how fast she drove on the freeway.

You know something, Tygue? This is the most beautiful present anyone's ever given me.

For real? How come?

Because you worked so hard at it, and because it's alive. And because we'll watch it grow, and get good things to eat from it, and pretty flowers. That's quite a present, sweetheart.

Yeah. He looked around, doubly impressed with himself, and then shook hands soberly with Tillie, as the two women tried not to laugh. It was a beautiful moment, and then Tillie looked up, as though she had just remembered something.

You got a call. Felicia obviously. Kate nodded, pleased but not overly interested. From New York.

New York? For a moment, there was a tiny catch somewhere in her heart. New York? It couldn't be. Probably something stupid like the main office of her insurance company. Something like that. She'd gotten wound up over nothing before. She knew better now. After six years, she knew.

They want you to call back.

Too late now. It was already five-thirty in the West, three hours later in the East. Kate didn't look particularly upset.

Tillie nodded in her easygoing, never-hurried country way. Yeah. He said it might be too late. Left a number you could call in L.A.

The something in her heart caught again. Harder this time. This was ridiculous. She was playing games with herself. Why was she so damn jumpy today?

I wrote it all down inside.

I'd better go take a look. And then she looked down at Tygue with a tender smile, and her voice softened again.

Thank you for my beautiful garden, sweetheart I love it and I love you. She stooped for a moment and held him tight, and then hand in hand they walked toward the house, with Bert loping along beside them as best his stumpy legs would allow. Want a cup of coffee, Tillie? But the older woman shook her head.

I've got to get home. Jake's kids are coming by tonight for supper, and I've got some things to do. The usual understatement. Jake had nine kids. There would be dinner for twelve. More, if assorted boy friends and girl friends came too, which they often aid. Tillie was always prepared.

She got into her truck with a wave, and then hung out the window. You going up to teach again this week, Kate? It was funny she should ask, and Kate looked at her with a barely perceptible frown. She always went twice, but she had wondered the same thing herself on the way home today. She just didn't feel like going the second time this week.

Can I let you know tomorrow? It wouldn't alter what she paid Tillie a set amount, once a month, to baby-sit twice a week. It was easier just writing one check a month, and the arrangement suited them both. If she decided to go to a movie in the evening, she just dropped Tygue off at Tillie's place on the way, and picked him up on her way home. Tillie didn't charge her for that, he was just like one of the grand-kids. But Kate hardly ever did that. She spent her evenings at the typewriter. And going out at night still made her long for Tom. It was easier to stay home.

Sure, call me tomorrow, or the day after if you want, Kate. The day's yours, one way or the other.

Thanks. Kate smiled and waved, as she gently pushed Tygue ahead of her into the house. Maybe she would take a day off, and skip seeing Tom later in the week. Maybe she could plant some more things in the garden with Tygue. What a super idea Tillie had had. Why didn't she think of things like that?

What's for dinner? He threw himself on the kitchen floor with Bert, spewing mud around him on the clean floor as his mother grimaced.

I'm going to make you eat mud pies, kiddo, if you don't get into the bathroom and get clean in about fourteen seconds. And take Bert with you.

Come on, Mom ' I wanna watch '

You'd better watch some soap and water, mister, and I mean it! She pointed determinedly toward the bathroom and then Tillie's message caught her eye and she remembered the call from New York. It turned out to be from the New York office of the agency she used in Los Angeles to sell her books. All the publishers were in New York, so her agent just shipped her manuscripts there, and let the eastern office handle it. Her Los Angeles agent did hold her hand a lot, and would get into the act if she ever sold a film, but the very thought of selling a film made her laugh. That was the stuff of writers' fantasies. Only novices believed they really had a chance. She knew better now, and she was just damn grateful to sell a book now and then, even if it was only for a lousy two thousand bucks every three years. It helped pad out the small income she still got from Tom's investments.

So she wrote her book, and sent it to the agent in L.A., who would then mail it on to New York. And then New York would take two months even to tell her they knew she was alive, and after that with any luck at all they sold the book. Then she got a check from them, and twice a year she got royalty statements from the publishers. It was no more exciting than that. The first time it had taken them almost a year to sell her book, the second time it had taken them that long to tell her the new book stank and they couldn't sell it. This last time they had told her they were hopeful. But they had taken almost two years to sell it. That had been a year ago. And it finally would be out in another month. All of which was reasonable by publishing standards. She knew that publishers sometimes sat on a book for two or three years before publishing it. She had been given an advance of three thousand dollars, and that would be that. It didn't even disappoint her anymore. Just a nice polite print run of five thousand books, and eventually she would see it in her local bookstore if she took the trouble to go down there to look for it. And a year later it would be out of print. It would go as quietly as it had come. But at least she'd have written it. And she was pleased about this one. It was a little unnerving to think this book might actually sell. Its subject was a little too close to home. She had almost hoped it wouldn't sell, in case someone remembered her. But how could they? Publishers didn't advertise the work of relatively unknown authors. And who was Kaitlin Harper? No one. She was safe. The book was a novel, but there was a lot in it about professional football, and the kind of pressure that was put on the players and their wives. Writing it had done her good. It had freed her of some of the old ghosts. There was a lot in it about Tom, the Tom she had loved, not the Tom who had snapped.