The Sisters (31 page)

Like Grandpa Hans, Grace loved physical work, the tightening and tugging of her muscles, the feeling of her developing, sinuous strength. How she missed him. Since his death last year, their house had been all women. Only he could understand Grace’s longings—how she waited eagerly for the heat that started with her rushing blood and then rose to her skin in cooling beads; how she gloried in digging the ground, inhaling the smell of the soil, the sweet mineral taste of it when it was freshly turned. Someday she wanted to know the fragrance of every separate plant—not just blossoms, but the acidy, velvet scent of a tomato plant; the light cool smell, like romaine lettuce, of a maple leaf, and how it was different from a crushed redbud leaf, which reminded her of watermelon rind after the juicy flesh had been eaten.

Since the time she’d sat close, at eight or nine, while her grandfather repaired the shed that came down in the hailstorm, and Grandpa, when he was sure Grandma wasn’t watching out the kitchen window, had guided her hand for two strokes with the saw, Grace had craved the sensations that came with making things—like the zing that shot up her arm and landed in her chest with every pull of the saw through the plank, the tingling in her fingers that held the sandpaper, and the fragrant almost-itch of sawdust caught in the sweat on her face.

At fifteen, she had fallen in love with how fire, coupled with strong precise blows of a hammer, could turn a length of iron into a cooking pot or a fireplace poker or a gate latch. That autumn, at the Pioneer Days festival, she had stood for hours watching a blacksmith place the fiery iron across the anvil and pound it into the shape in his mind. He noticed her, Grace thought, mainly because she was the only person who stayed for more than a minute, but when he did, he began to explain what he was doing, which caused a few others to linger and ask a question before moving on. Grace listened, all the while fingering a beautiful gate latch he’d laid on a table among other pieces he had for sale.

“It’s for your smarter-than-average horse or mule,” the smith said, nodding at the latch. He laid his tools aside, took the latch from her, pressed it against the side of the display table and asked Grace to hold it there. “See here,” he said, going to the other side of the table. “Imagine this is a gate and your horse is over here. You have a smart horse, he can learn to lift a regular latch with his teeth. And a really smart horse can figure out the kind that slide sideways. But this one…” He leaned over to reach the latch, his fingers mimicking the bite of a horse. “The horse might be able to get hold of the top ring in his teeth and lift it, but then he couldn’t push down the lever that opens the bolt. Can’t get at the bolt without lifting the ring. Takes two hands.”

Grace longed to buy the latch, to keep it oiled and free of rust until the day she had her own place out in the country and her own gate to secure against her clever horse. She had watched the smith work long enough to recognize the latch was worth every penny he was asking for it—more—but it didn’t matter because she didn’t have enough money.

Three times, thinking she was managing to be discreet, she’d counted the dollars she’d shoved into her back pocket, but of course he had seen her.

“I’ll make you a deal on it,” the smith said.

“I don’t even have half.” She shook her head and turned to go.

“I can do part barter.” He handed her the latch again and pulled off his work gloves. “That necklace you’re wearing. It’s nice work. Got a daughter living out in Colorado—she’s a potter. I think she’d like it. What do you reckon it’s worth? You remember what you gave for it?”

Grace blushed. “My choker? I never thought about it being worth anything,” she said. “Except to me. I made it.”

The smith stooped to see the necklace better, so Grace unhooked it and handed it to him. He sat down, laid the choker across his lap, and traced the interlocking golden spirals with his finger. “You made this?” Lifting the necklace to hold in the light, he said, “Girl, you could be selling these—right here.”

Grace didn’t know what to say. It had never occurred to her that anyone besides herself might like her pieces. Her wirework had become a family joke—just like the beading she’d done when she was younger. Lynn usually led the way, asking at dinner what new masterpiece Grace had been rendering instead of finishing her homework, and Mother would roll her eyes when, once again, for Christmas or her birthday, Grace asked for money—money she would immediately hand to Grandma, who would write a check to send mail order for pliers, cutters, crimps, and wire.

“If you’re willing,” the smith said, “I’ll trade you even—the necklace for the latch. Then we both come out okay.”

Back home that evening, Grace had laid out all the pieces she had ever made—chokers, chains, pendants, bracelets, earrings. At first, she looked at them lovingly—they
were
pretty—then gratefully. Then critically. Suddenly she could see how to make them better. She pulled her sketches from her desk drawer and, seeing new possibilities—how she could twine or braid the wire before she turned a spiral—she laid strong, confident pencil marks across her original faint designs. From time to time she would take up the gate latch and study it. One day, she promised herself, she would learn ironwork and make an even better one.

“Grace,” Hiram called from outside the barn. “Got one coming up.”

She finished scattering the fresh straw in Delia’s stall and stepped into the breezeway. The new man, Hiram’s friend, had dismounted and was leading Ashes to the washing pen. Both rider and horse were powdered with fine clay. Grace held her hand out to take the reins. The man stopped, keeping Ashes just out of her reach, and he looked at her so directly, so frankly, her cheeks flashed hot. She looked to the ground, stepped forward, and put her hand on the horse’s lead, high above the man’s hand. “I’ll take him,” she said. “It’s my job.”

Crab didn’t let go. He moved his hand higher, nearly touching hers, his open stare fixed on her all the while, his hot breath stirring the loose wisps of hair around her face.

Still holding the reins, Grace stepped past him to stroke Ashes’s neck, clucking softly. The horse dipped his head toward her and nickered back.

“Okay.” The man let go of the reins and began slapping the dust out of his jeans.

While she tied Ashes in the pen, turned on the water, and gathered her bucket and brushes, Grace could sense the man was still there, just outside the pen, watching her. She wiped down the horse with tepid water, his muscles rippling in gratitude with every stroke. With a quick glance as she moved to wash Ashes’s other side, she saw the man squatting against the wall, just beyond the flow of water, still watching her.

“You weren’t brought up to this, were you?”

Grace turned as far as she could to hide her cheeks—red again—and in her head she ran quickly through the checklist Hiram had made her memorize. Yes, she was doing everything just as he had shown her. She’d been foolish ever to look at this man twice—one of those who was just bent on rattling other people for no good reason. She didn’t want to know him now.

“No offense,” the man said, standing up, his back against the wall. “It’s just you’re gentler than somebody who grew up around horses. They’re not glass, you know.”

Grace ignored him and brushed the water from Ashes’s coat in smoother, wider arcs.

“I hope Hiram coughs up for all that extra TLC.”

Grace picked up Ashes’s left forefoot, checked the shoe and examined the hoof. “We trade.” Picking up the right forefoot, she said, “The shoe’s coming loose.”

“When’s the farrier come?”

“I can fix it.” She set the horse’s foot back down and walked past the man without looking at him. She came back with her tools, and when the shoe was secure again, she faced him. His stare didn’t trouble her now. She stared back.

His gray hair made it hard to read his age, but only partly. At some angles, his face looked young—at most thirty, thirty-five—but there was a deep crease between his eyes, and the eyes themselves looked worn-out, defeated, no light. With his feet on the ground, his back wasn’t nearly so straight as when he was on horseback. He was slim and solid, all muscle and bone.

“Come on out with me,” he said.

“Outside? Why? I’m not finished here.”

“I mean come out with me,” he said. “A date. You’re not married, are you?”

Grace stood at Ashes’s head, scratching his long, taut neck. “Who are you anyway? Do you just go around trying to pick up women in stables?”

“Not always in stables.” He’d tried to say this with dash but had failed, and now Grace could see that for all his efforts to appear smooth, a ladies’ man, he was really clumsy.

“I’m not married,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean I’m available.”

“Boyfriend?”

“What do you want with me?”

“Jesus, why do girls always have to know that crap?
What do you want? Where is this going?
How the hell should I know? Do you want to go to lunch with me or not? I’ve got a clean shirt in the car, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Grace suppressed a laugh and then, surprised at how sorry she felt for him, said, “I can’t. When I’m finished here, I have to go home and get ready for work. My paying job.”

“Where’s that?” He must have caught her look of annoyance, because he said, “Sorry, too many questions. How about dinner, then, or a drink? Are you old enough to drink? Legal, I mean.”

“No,” Grace said, enjoying his obvious uncertainty about what she was saying no to. “Maybe.”

“Maybe you’ll come out with me?”

“Maybe,” she said. “Sometime. Maybe after you decide to tell me your name and ask mine. Maybe.”

He dropped his head in what might have been shame, but he came up laughing. “
Christ,
” he said and told her his name was Ken, that he was taking some classes at Newman Community College—English and history, mostly—trying to figure out what he wanted to do. He didn’t say anything about a job, nor did he mention how it was he had money enough to play around in school at his age. There was a lot he wasn’t telling her—even the usual things people share when they’re getting acquainted—and something about his manner that forced her not to ask. But she liked him. She was almost sure she liked him.

“Why does Hi call you Crab?” That question seemed safe enough.

“His twist on an old nickname,” Ken said. “Hermit. I like to keep to myself.”

“And if somebody bothers you, do you come out snapping?

“Sometimes.” He winked at her. “But not you. I’d be nice to you. Invite you into my cave.” Had it not been for the sweet self-mockery of his tone, she would have thrown the currycomb at his head and told him to go down to the Holiday Inn to prowl the lounge.

Yes, she liked him.

“I’ll think about it,” Grace said, untying Ashes and turning him to lead him back to his stall. She looked over her shoulder at Ken. “See you around.”

*   *   *

It took more than three weeks of Ken’s coming to the barn, of his pretending not to notice that she watched him on Ashes, of his hanging around while she washed the horse down, before she finally said she’d go out with him. Hiram didn’t like it, but he didn’t say anything—not to her anyway. Whenever Grace leaned in the doorway to talk to Ken, whenever she gave him a teasing shove, she could see Hiram somewhere nearby, keeping his eye on her, saying something she couldn’t hear to whoever was standing closest. A couple of times she saw him stop Ken at the entrance to the ring, Hi gesturing up toward the barn and shaking his head, Ken tightening his lips and jutting out his chin. They seemed less friendly to each other these days.

Three weeks until she finally said yes to Ken—until she finally said she’d meet him for Sunday brunch at Frisch’s. And now he was standing her up.

Grace waited on the sidewalk for an hour, pacing, checking her watch, checking her hair in the window, stepping off the curb to let couples and families pass by her and into the restaurant. Brunch was over by the time she went inside and ordered a Swiss Miss—to go. She had to drive straight to work, and on her way to the mall, she took angry bites of the sandwich at every stoplight.

Then, just before 5:30, when she moved from customer to customer in the jewelry store to say they would be closing in five minutes, she saw Ken sitting outside on the bench, almost lost against the small artificial jungle behind him. She might not have seen him at all if not for his hair.

Grace made a point of not looking at him. She tried to persuade a boy and girl not any older than she was that they could look at the engagement rings as long as they liked—she’d be happy to stay late for them—but they all three knew that Grace had no authority to keep the store open and that even if she did, the boy didn’t have any money to spend. Her offer only embarrassed the couple, who quickly left the store.

She asked the manager if there was anything she could help him with, but he said no and waited impatiently for her to pass through the partially opened security gate so he could lock up, tally the day’s sales, and go home.

Ken had stationed himself so that she would be facing him when she came out of the store, so Grace glared at him, then made a sharp right, walking quickly. He fell in step behind her, followed her all the way to her car, and knocked on the window before she turned the key.

“Please, Grace,” he said, his voice muffled by the glass. “I’m sorry. Really.”