Thankful for Love (10 page)

Eventually her weariness from the previous night's insomnia, a long, full day at the restaurant, and the emotional confrontation with her neighbor won out, and she fell into a deep sleep. Once there, the dreams she had prominently featured a sexy cowboy wearing a white hat like some old black and white movie. He rode to her rescue on an Appaloosa, scooping her up from the midst of a crowd carrying torches and nooses, then riding off with her. She woke up smiling at some point, only to go back to sleep and continue the adventure.

The next morning, instead of throwing on the first pair of jeans she could find and the cleanest T-shirt in her drawer, she dressed more carefully, making sure the jeans she selected fit her well and hunting down the coral color knit top she knew was flattering to her coloring. Before she left for the ranch, she put her freshly washed hair in a perfect braid and even slapped on a bit of lipstick to match her shirt.

But as she drove down the road to the house, she could see Jack's truck was missing. He was out someplace. Her careful preparations had been in vain.

The lipstick had been chewed off, and the knit shirt had collected a few spots by the end of the day, which was when Jack arrived back at the house. He offered her a glass of wine, which she turned down, peeked into the oven to see what she'd left him for dinner, and asked if six was a good time to pick her up the following night. He was warm and friendly, as he usually was, and there was no mention of the incident of the day before.

She wasn't sure if she was relieved or disappointed.

Quanna's shift at the restaurant on Wednesday dragged so badly she swore she'd worked eighteen hours instead of eight. Feeling like a school kid released for summer vacation when she was finally finished, she raced home to shower and change. When she looked through her closet for something to wear, once again, she regretted not having enough money to buy a nicer wardrobe. There was no floaty, girly skirt or silky top, no sundress with a halter neckline, no sandals with a web of straps to hold them on her feet.

Instead, she was stuck with the same old clothes: regular jeans or ripped jeans, a couple pairs of knit pants, her scrubs from her job at Golden Years, her restaurant uniform, athletic shoes, boots, and ballet flats.

Finally she decided on a pair of new, never-worn jeans paired with a little top she'd forgotten she owned until she found it in the back of her closet. It was a totally impractical thing she'd bought in Portland for a date with the guy she'd been seeing. A warm beige color that looked good with her skin, the top consisted of four layers of fluttery gauze. Hanging from two thin spaghetti straps, it barely reached her waist. Not the floaty skirt she wanted, but the way the gauze layers moved around her torso was almost as good.

A wide belt and her dressier boots accessorized her choices. She added the little bit of makeup she wore—her coral lipstick—and she was ready to go. At five-thirty.

If she thought her work shift had crept by slowly, the half hour until Jack was due moved with a speed that made a glacier look like Road Runner.

Finally, at five of six, there was a knock at the door. When she opened it, Jack was shifting his weight back and forth from one boot-shod foot to the other, as if he were nervous. Thinking maybe he was a little anxious about this, too, settled her down somewhat. The deep breath she took to calm herself gave her a whiff of the familiar smell of his sage-y soap, which also helped. He, too, was in jeans as crisp and new looking as hers were. His white shirt set off his tan face handsomely. She was pretty sure he was freshly shaved.

Clearing his throat, he handed her a bouquet of wildflowers wrapped in brown paper and said, “Hi,” his voice a bit higher than usual. He coughed again before continuing in a more normal tone. “I brought these for you. You've said you like the plains so I figured you'd like wildflowers. Thought maybe you'd like to have them in your apartment to remind you of what's outside the city.”

She took the bouquet and touched the coneflowers and lupine before smiling and saying, “I do love them. Thank you.” She gestured for him to sit down. “Let me get them in water before we go.”

• • •

Jack couldn't remember when he'd felt less sure of himself. It was worse than when he was in high school. Of course, then he'd had a steady girlfriend and only had to worry about grades and getting into college. He didn't have to be anxious about how an evening out would go. Like he was tonight.

He watched Quanna rummage through a kitchen cabinet until she found a clear glass vase, the kind a million florists use. Someone had sent her flowers at one time or another, he'd bet. He wondered if she'd smiled at the guy's flowers the way she'd smiled at the ones he brought her. That other guy couldn't have known to give her wildflowers if he sent her something from a florist. He congratulated himself on being smarter than the other guy.

What the hell was he thinking? He was stupidly jealous of some nameless, faceless guy who wasn't around anymore. But would anyone blame him? She looked beautiful. She was wearing some little bit of a top that made it obvious, without looking trashy, there wasn't a bra underneath. The fabric of the shirt-top-whatever-it-was moved gently around her as she trimmed the stems of the flowers, stripped off some of the leaves, and arranged them in the vase.

And then there was the view he was getting of her rear end in those jeans that fit like a glove.

Stop. He had to stop thinking of how good her body looked. If he didn't, he'd be drooling like some old guy looking at the swimsuit edition of
Sports Illustrated
before they got out of the place. He had to find something else to look at, to talk about. Something. Anything.

At first glance, there wasn't much to distract him. Her apartment was a small studio with only the bare essentials. He was sitting on a futon he was sure doubled as her bed, which was another direction he had to steer his thoughts clear of. The only other furniture was a wooden rocking chair and a small bistro-style wrought iron table with two chairs. The kitchen was across the room from where he was sitting, and a door next to it led, he assumed, to the bathroom.

In spite of the tiny space, however, it was not boring once he began to look more closely. Quanna had surrounded herself with color—pillows and a throw on the futon, a rug under the small table, and a curtain swagged over the window, all in shades of brown and sage green, soft orange and gold. Displayed on a small bookcase along with what looked like textbooks were two baskets and a piece of beadwork. Probably created by modern Umatilla artisans. On the wall were photos of Eastern Oregon landscapes, like some of the work in his house.

“I didn't notice much about your apartment when I was here on Monday,” he said. “It looks nice. I like it.”

She smiled. “Thanks. Most of it is from the room I had in Portland. I missed the colors of home and decorated it to remind me.” She pointed to the photos. “My brother Frank took those pictures and had them blown up for me as a present when I said I was homesick for the plains.”

“He's a good photographer.”

“He'd like to sell more of his work, but he's got kids to raise. So he works for the tribe, running the campgrounds near the resort, while he does his photography on the side.”

“He should keep at it. He's got a good eye.”

“I'll tell him you said so.” She put the vase on the small bistro table. “Thank you again for these. I love wildflowers. Better than cultivated flowers, actually.” She dried her hands on a cloth towel and looked around as if trying to see what else needed to be done. “I guess that's it. I'm ready to go if you are.”

• • •

She had warned her coworkers she'd be back with a date, but when they got to the resort, Jack didn't head for the Traditions buffet where she worked. Instead, he guided her to Plateau, the fine dining restaurant where she'd never eaten. She wasn't sure if she should suggest they go to the other restaurant or keep her mouth shut and enjoy the luxury of the place she'd heard such good things about from her coworkers.

As if he were reading her mind, Jack said, “I never asked which restaurant you worked in but decided I'd make a reservation at the one I've never been in. I've eaten at Traditions but not here.” He pulled out the chair for her to be seated.

“I've never eaten here either. Traditions is where I work.”

After a few minutes of perusing the menu, he asked, “Have you heard what's good?”

“The salmon is good in both restaurants. I hear the whiskey steak is delicious.”

“I usually prefer my own steak, but the buffalo Bolognese looks interesting.”

“Which no Italian would claim, I'm sure,” she said, laughing.

Their server interrupted and asked if they'd like to order drinks. When she turned to take Quanna's order, her eyes widened. “Quanna! I didn't recognize you at first.”

“Hi, Kimi.”

Kimi looked back and forth between Quanna and Jack. Finally Quanna said, “This is Jack Richardson. Jack, this is Kimi Miller. We worked together at Traditions until she got the job here.”

Glasses of wine were ordered and the specials recited. A somewhat awkward silence fell when Kimi left.

“Are you uncomfortable being seen with me?” Jack asked.

“Uncomfortable? No. I can't imagine why you'd think I am.”

“You're quieter than usual. I thought maybe you were uneasy being out with someone so much older than you are.”

“I don't know how old you are, so I couldn't be uneasy about your age.”

“I'm sixteen years older than you are. That's quite a span.”

“So it makes you uncomfortable.” She waved off the objection she was sure was coming. “I'm a lot older than my chronologic years, Jack. Your age isn't an issue.”

Their wine arrived, and he tilted his glass toward hers so they could touch the rims together and toast. “Cheers. Thank you for agreeing to this,” he said.

“I should be thanking you.” She took a sip of her wine. “Even the wine tastes better here.”

He laughed. “Probably because it's a higher quality than the kind I gave you the other night.”

They ordered salmon for her and buffalo Bolognese for him. Both, it turned out, delicious. The conversation over their entrees was mostly about what the boys were doing in Portland and how the wheat crop looked for the season. But when their dinner plates were cleared and they waited for their desserts, Jack returned to the conversation they'd started before dinner.

“I'm curious about what you said—about being older than your years. I realize I don't know a whole lot about you other than the glowing references I got from everyone who ever employed you. And the clean criminal background check I got.”

“You did a criminal background check on me?” She wasn't sure if she should be angry or surprised.

“I would have done it for anyone I was leaving in charge of my kids. Didn't you have to have one at Golden Years?”

“Yes, but I never thought I'd have to have one to work in someone's home.”

“It was important to know my kids were safe.”

“I understand. I shouldn't have sounded so surprised.”

“Or angry.”

“Yeah, a little bit.” She picked up a spoon and stared intently at it, twisting it in her fingers. “I've heard too many times how Indians can't be trusted. I'd like people to trust me.”

“And I do. With what I value most—my two boys.” He reached across the table and took the spoon from her hand. “Are you avoiding talking about your personal life? If you are, that's okay. It's not any of my business.”

“Of course it's your business. I practically live in your house. It's just that my family's not particularly interesting.”

“Why would you say that? Your mom's Umatilla. You told the boys the first time you met them your dad was from Central America. There must be an interesting story about how they met.”

“He came through here as migrant labor and stayed when they fell in love. They got married and proceeded to have a bunch of kids. He had very little education so work was hard to find. We never had much money. I don't think he ever considered himself a success at much of anything. Not like you and your family.” She was trying hard not to sound defensive about her family, but it wasn't easy. Compared to Jack and his siblings and their family ranch, her family wasn't very successful.

“Do you speak both your parents' languages?”

“Not as well as either my mother or father would have liked, but I can get along in Umatilla and I'm pretty good with Spanish.”

“Did—does—your mom work outside the house?”

“She doesn't. Miguel, the youngest of my siblings, was born with Down syndrome and a congenital heart problem. He needs full-time care.”

“So, two brothers ...”

“And a sister, Aiyana. She's the oldest. Then Frank, me, and Miguel.”

“How come Frank doesn't have an interesting name like the rest of you?”

She laughed. “He's actually Franco. The boys got Hispanic names like our dad. The two girls got Indian names like our mom.”

“As long as I'm prying into your life, mind if I ask something else?”

“Of course not.”

“What made you move to Portland? You lived there for quite a while even though you said you love the plains.”

“My mom wanted both her daughters away from here so we wouldn't end up like her, no education, early marriage, bunch of kids. Aiyana went to Bellingham to live with a cousin while she went to school to be a nurse. I thought Portland was a better choice for me to get my degree so I could teach.”

“You moved back before you finished. How come?”

“It was hard to make enough money to live in Portland and go to school while I was working full-time shift work. And the boyfriend who I thought might be serious someday broke up with me about the same time my dad died. It seemed a good time to move back and help my mom.”