Beauty & the Beasts (10 page)

Late Monday afternoon Eric called her at the store to cancel their lesson. “A pickup pulling a horse trailer got in an accident,” he said briefly. “It’s pretty bad.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Phone me later if you’d like.”

Feeling at loose ends, Madeline went to the shelter. Joan and the cleaner were gone for the day, and the place was the next thing to spotless. Notes on cards taped to cages let her know that all the cats who required medication had received it. In the kitten room she got out a toy—feathers at the end of a string tied to a stick. Only a couple of the older kittens even looked interested.

She picked up October, a five-month-old orange tabby, and kissed him. He turned his head away and squirmed in her arms.

“Well, phooey on you,” she said. “I’m going home.”

She’d eaten out so much this past week her cupboards were well stocked, but nothing she saw inspired her. Finally she decided she wasn’t really hungry. She popped a grape into her mouth and picked up the TV guide.

Spring was the season of reruns. A trip to the library sounded like too much effort. She ended up vacuuming and mopping the kitchen floor, then paying bills. All the while she imagined the scream of injured horses, splattered blood, flailing hooves. Had people died? Would Eric have to put down any of the horses? He hadn’t said how many there were. She wished he’d call.

By bedtime, he hadn’t. Madeline was dismayed to realize how empty the evening had seemed without him, how aimless she felt. But her life had been complete! She’d been contented. Now she needed a man to fulfill her? Toothbrush poised, she glared at herself in the bathroom mirror.

The face that looked back at her photographed superbly, although she knew much of that had to do with peculiarities of the camera lens and tricks of light. To her own eye, without makeup she was more the ugly duckling than the swan. Her cheekbones were too prominent, her lower lip annoyingly pouty, her forehead so high it left this big blank space above the arch of her brows. Why did men find it so seductive? Lord knew, at heart she was more like the cliché of a spinster librarian with mouse brown hair pulled tightly back into a bun.

It scared her to think that all Eric saw was the image the cameras captured. In the midst of teenage angst, she’d actually considered scarring herself or doing something else equally drastic to mar the facade, to make sure people saw
her.
She was grateful she hadn’t acted on her desire to deny that she was what people saw. Even so, she’d never become comfortable with her own face or body. The little girl who’d reveled in being told she was pretty had grown into a twelve-year-old who’d come to the painful realization that her only value as a human being was her looks. It had to be, if her looks were all even her own mother cared about.

She closed her eyes so that she could no longer see herself in the mirror. Memory of that kiss—the one after her first riding lesson—flooded through her, followed by memories of the others: the times his mouth was wholly gentle, the times his fingers bit into her arms and his hips shoved urgently against hers, the times he looked down at her and smiled. At her? Or in satisfaction at the prize he’d captured?

How would she ever know?

Madeline opened her eyes and stared fiercely at herself. She was more than a face that had appeared on the cover of
Seventeen
and
Mademoiselle.
More than a body that had pirouetted for countless photographers. More than the girl whose mother had ruled against the junk food other kids ate, the sleepovers where the girls giggled far into the night, the sports where they challenged themselves, all based on how they would affect her appearance. She couldn’t put on weight. Heaven forbid she get a pimple. No sleepovers;
why, she might look tired for tomorrow’s shoot! Soccer was out; she might get bruised or even break a bone. She had to take enormous care to avoid sunburn or too much tan. She had to look perfect, because only her beauty—and the money it brought in—counted.

Madeline brushed her teeth in a hurry and braided her hair. Bedside lamp on, she moved Peaches off her pillow and climbed under the covers. Maggie grumbled at her intrusion, then snuggled cozily against her legs. Madeline was just reaching for the lamp switch when the phone rang.

She made herself wait for a second ring, then picked up the receiver and said cautiously, “Hello?”

“Did I wake you?” Eric’s voice was rougher than usual, without its customary insouciance.

“No.” She sat up to the accompaniment of more grumbles from the fat tortoiseshell and wedged a pillow behind her. “Did you just get home?”

“Yeah.” His tone was flat, the weariness almost tangible. She imagined it weighting his shoulders and carving lines into his face.

“Was it…was it bad?”

“We had to euthanize two.” He took a ragged breath. “It was a big rig, Thoroughbred mares and foals. We set a couple of legs—got the horses in slings. It’ll depend on how patient they are. Teresa came out, too, and Dr. Lee from Lake Stevens. He’s an equine specialist.”

Madeline made an inarticulate noise and listened as he described the horror. The decisions had primarily been theirs; the driver, a trainer, had been in
shock at the hospital where his wife had been taken with internal injuries.

“The foals?” she asked.

“One died. Whole damn rig rolled. One stall was just…crushed.”

Eventually he talked himself out. He sounded less sick and more leaden, tiredness fogging the sharp colors of the scenes he described to her.

“Good God,” he said finally, “this was just what you needed! A cheerful bedtime story. I shouldn’t have dumped on you.”

“Isn’t that what friends are for?”

His voice quieted. “Is that what we are?”

Everything went still inside her. “I hope so.”

“I have a little more in mind.”

“And…does the ‘little more’ rule out friendship?”

His answer meant too much. It was too long coming.

“No.” He sounded surprised. “No. I used to wish—”

He broke off, and she heard nothing but the sound of his breathing. She prodded, “You used to wish what?”

“You don’t want to hear about my marriage.”

Actually she couldn’t think of anything she’d rather hear more about. “Yes,” she said firmly, “I do.”

“Noreen didn’t like me to talk about anything sad. She’d just cry and what was the point? she’d say. If I vented anger, that upset her. We communicated fine
about practical stuff—still do—but we didn’t just
talk.
Too much was forbidden.”

“That’s sad.”

“Yeah.” Eric was silent for a moment. “Doomed our marriage, I guess.”

“Of course it did!” Feeling indignant on his behalf, she spoke more vehemently than maybe she ought to have. “If you can’t really, really talk to your husband or wife, who can you talk to?” As if
she
was any expert!

“Yeah, well.” Another pause. “Noreen’s getting married again. Next week.”

Madeline reached for Benjamin, her soft flame-point Siamese, and began stroking, needing the contact. “Do you mind?”

“Nah,” he said promptly. “Too many years. I hope it works for her.” Not even the tiniest bit of regret colored his tone.

“I’m glad,” Madeline said softly.

His voice lowered. “It’s nice to know you care.”

Oh, God. Panic came on a burst of adrenaline. This was getting too serious, too fast.
Do something!
she ordered herself.

She tried to sound teasing. “Oh, I don’t know if I’d put it that strongly.”

In the silence that followed she would have liked to see his face. She was also glad she couldn’t.

“Okay,” he said at last, agreeably. “You don’t care.”

She squeezed poor Benjamin too hard. He squeaked and wriggled free of her arms. “I didn’t say that!”

He laughed, a genuine warm chuckle. “I’ll tell you what—I won’t pin you down on what you did say. Or more to the point, what you meant. We’ll let it go for a while.”

Time to end this. Before she said something
really
stupid. “Then…good night.”

“Pleasant dreams.” He must be mocking her, the huskiness in his voice a way of making sure her dreams were about him.

Which, of course, they would be. Since, despite common sense, she did care.

CHAPTER SIX

T
HE BROAD WING
of the 747 tipped to reveal Mount Rainier below. Garth pressed his nose to the thick glass of the window. He used to think the volcano looked like a Sno-Kone without the flavoring: a huge snowy white dome. He’d imagined licking it, the icy crystals tingling his tongue. Now he thought maybe a woman’s breast, white and cold. He’d been noticing breasts a lot lately; the girls in his class were definitely getting them, some faster than others. Mary Aiken looked practically like Dolly Parton. When she went by, every boy’s head swiveled.

Slowly the 747 straightened, and Garth couldn’t see Mount Rainier anymore. In hardly any time, though, the plane began its descent toward Sea-Tac, the airport south of Seattle. Dad would be waiting. He and Mom had probably arranged it: the captive handed over to the attendant, who wouldn’t take her steely eye off him until his father gripped his arm on the other end.

Every other year, he’d been so excited by this time that, when the light blinked on, he could hardly bear to fasten the seat belt and just sit still as the engines roared and the plane banked. He’d be craning his neck looking out the window, fidgeting, hands on the
belt catch so he could be the first to free himself and race down the aisle. In the terminal, he’d throw himself into his father’s arms.

What a little kid he’d been, Garth thought disparagingly. Like coming up here was some big treat. As if anybody gave him a choice. He’d even had to have a baby-sitter, for Pete’s sake! Some days he’d go with Dad on his farm calls or hang around the clinic, but sometimes Dad couldn’t take him, or Garth didn’t feel like it

Last year he’d become friends with Mark Hughes, the son of Dad’s partner. Garth wondered what Mark was like now. Did he listen to cool music and wear shorts so big they hung down practically to his ankles? Or was he still the good little boy, into soccer and school? Like Garth was going to spend
his
summer kicking around a dumb ball or riding bikes as if they were eight years old.

With a faint thump, the wheels touched the runway and the pilot applied the brakes. Before the plane even stopped, people unclicked lap belts and began stretching. Garth stayed in his seat when everyone else jostled into the aisle, heading toward the exit or reaching for stuff in the overhead compartments. Let Dad wait

He still hadn’t moved when the attendant paused by his seat. “Are you okay?”

Garth gave her a flat stare. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

She returned a sunny smile. “Can I get anything down for you?”

He wondered what her boobs would look like with
her arms stretched above her head. “Uh, yeah. I think my bag’s up there.”

The two little Mount Rainiers on her chest lifted and flattened when she stood on tiptoe and groped overhead. After a moment she peered down at him. “I don’t see anything up here.”

“Really?” He played dumb. “Wait a minute. Gol. I guess it’s down here. Sorry.”

“No problem.” She turned sideways to let a couple of people squeeze past. “I’ll bet your father’s waiting eagerly.”

Hidden message: she wanted to hand him over. He rolled his eyes and shrugged. There wasn’t any point in sitting here, anyway. Unless they’d let him stay on the plane and fly wherever it was going next. Hawaii, maybe. Or Alaska. He briefly fantasized getting off in some exotic place all by himself, his mother’s credit card in hand.

But the attendant was still waiting. And probably the plane would just be parked for the night, or else it was going to someplace deadly, like Kansas City or Chicago or Dallas.

So he slouched out of his seat and down the aisle. He was the last one off the plane, except for the crew. Up the long tube to the terminal and then he popped out. And there was Dad, a big fake smile on his face.

G
OD ALMIGHTY
. Shocked, Eric stared at the boy, who stared back. Garth? Could this kid really be his son? What the hell had happened to him in the past year? His jeans were about ten sizes too big, the crotch bagging around his knees, the tattered dirty hems
dragging on the floor. The sneering face of a rap singer known for his particularly violent lyrics adorned the front of a T-shirt just as sacky.

Well, okay, Eric knew oversize clothes were in style for boys. Garth was twelve, old enough to care about such things.

But sweet Lord, what about the head, shaved bald, and the earring in one lobe? And the expression that echoed the rap artist’s?

“Garth?” he said uncertainly.

The kid’s lip curled. “You expecting someone else?”

Yeah, my son,
Eric wanted to say. He settled for, “You’ve changed.”

Jerking his shoulders, the boy said, “So? It’s been a long time.”

“You’ve grown,” Eric said. That seemed safe. Garth must be five foot eight now, an alarming leap toward manhood from last year’s child.

“Mom says I’ll be taller than you.” The idea seemed to give the boy pleasure in a disquieting way, as though stature would give him superiority.

“Maybe. She’s tall, too.” When Garth didn’t say anything, Eric shook his head. “Why are we standing here? Let’s go get your luggage. Want me to carry that bag?”

The boy grunted something that might have been no.

“How was the wedding?”

“It sucked.”

Eric glanced at him. “What? Your mom tripped
on her train and fell flat on her face? The groom didn’t show?”

“I wish.”

“She’d tripped?”

“That
he
didn’t show.” They entered the subwaylike people mover, and the doors glided shut. Garth grimaced. “But Chuckie always shows. As long as Mom feeds him, anyway.”

“Is he overweight?” The image of Chuck Morrison, ideal man, as obese held a certain appeal, Eric was ashamed to discover.

“Just…soft.” His youthful state of fitness without effort allowed Garth to be disgusted. “He likes to eat.”