Firebird (The Flint Hills Novels) (5 page)

He said it with his usual hearty smile, all friendly and good-natured, but he was immediately sorry because he knew from the moment he set eyes on her that she wouldn't take to men like him.

She dismissed the comment with a half-smile and then turned an admiring glance to the floor-to-ceiling books that lined his walls. "At first I thought I'd walked into the city library," she said.

Ethan nodded. "You did. Best darn library in the county," he replied proudly.

"You are a lawyer, are you not?"

"Indeed I am."

"You might want to put a sign on your door indicating as such, Mr. Brown. Or do you only practice law as a hobby?"

His smile widened.
Touché,
he thought to himself.
What do you expect? Running off at the mouth about the French and you know damn good and well she heard every word.

"I apologize for that, ma'am," he said sincerely. "Should have told you. Everyone around here knows me by Wordsworth." He gestured to a chair facing his desk. "Please, have a seat."

Ethan sat down behind his desk and began sifting through a stack of files. He was acutely aware of her presence. She had a measured and formal kind of elegance, but there was nothing contrived about it. It was natural, almost regal. She made him feel awkward,
plebian
was the word that came to his mind, and he couldn't concentrate and couldn't find the damn file.

"I'm very sorry about your mama. She was a lovely lady. We'll miss her."

"Thank you," she replied curtly.

Having found the file, Ethan leaned back in his chair and leveled a gaze on her.

"Your mother left you some property."

"Yes. I'd like to sell it."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Yes."

"Ma'am, you might want to reconsider. It's a real choice piece of land. Matter of fact, I recently bought the property adjacent to it on the south. The old Norton ranch. Some of the best grazing in the Hills. Value just keeps going up. Good place to raise a kid, too. You could continue to lease it out and make a nice little income. Or—"

"Mr. Brown," she cut in, "I want to sell it. I intend to buy a house in the south of France."

"Ma'am, take my word for it. This kind of land doesn't come up for sale but once in a lifetime. People hold on to it. Pass it down from generation to generation."

When Annette replied it was deliberately and patiently, as you would speak to a child, and it swept over her how she had tried so hard to explain this to her father for years, using these same words, this same tone of voice.

"Mr. Brown, I understand the land is valuable, which is why I want to sell it. I will never live on the land. Nor do I wish to pass it on to my daughter. I've made my home in Paris for seventeen years. I intend to grow old there. And be buried there—in my fur coat and my high heels, if at all possible."

He started to laugh, but the look in her eyes stopped him cold. It was a polite way of saying that if she had a choice between hell and here she would choose hell.

The absolute opposition of their lives was clear to both of them at that instant. It ballooned upon them like an epiphany and had the remarkable effect of making them instantly aware, however painful and unwelcome it might be, that they were staring at another human whose very identity was built upon a construct that was hostile to their own self.

Ethan smiled, a kind of respectful acknowledgment of the subtle antagonism between them.

"I'll be glad to take care of it for you," he said quietly.

"Thank you."

"The will's pretty straightforward. But we'll need your father's written consent before you sell."

"Why? My mother left it to me."

"Under Kansas law the surviving spouse has a claim to half the property. I urged your mother to let me deal with this before hand, but I think she was a little reluctant, with your father still alive. She didn't seem to be worried, though. Said your father knew her wishes, so I'm sure he'll honor them."

Ethan closed the file and tapped it on his knee. "I'll get the consent forms drawn up and send them over to your house tomorrow morning. And we won't have any trouble finding a buyer for your land, I promise you."

Annette stood and Ethan rose and came around the desk to shake her hand. He towered over her, and she noticed the clean smell of his starched shirt and judged him married although he wore no wedding ring.

On her way to the door she paused and glanced down at the book of poetry on the coffee table.

"Does anyone around here read Yeats?"

"Oh, a few of us starved souls do," he answered.

Then, his ego got the better of him, and in a gentle and expressive voice, he recited:

"When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face..."

He picked up the book and offered it to her. "You keep hold of that 'til you go," he said. "I don't charge for the poetry, just the prose."

"Thank you, Mr. Brown," she said warmly; it was the first time he'd seen her smile. "I'll make sure to get it back to you."

When she said good-bye, her eyes left him thinking he had, for a brief moment, impressed her.

After she left, Ethan dictated some notes to his secretary, Bonnie, then quickly closed up his office and headed for the Mackey place. Annette Zeldin had made him feel extremely uncomfortable. He thought if he could get out to the stable and saddle up his horse, he just might shake it off before it got under his skin.

* * *

That evening at the South Forty Ethan sat alone in the booth, watching Katie Anne dance. He had avoided his buddies at the bar and chose to sit quietly with his beer and reflect upon the events of the last few days. Getting his hands on Emma Ferguson's property was a dream come true. He should feel as though all was right with the world. Happy. Contented. He felt none of these things. What really annoyed him was that Mrs. Zeldin kept intruding upon his thoughts. He was relieved when Jer slid into the booth next to him.

"So, what'd you think of her?" asked Jer.

"Who?"

"Mrs. Zeldin."

"It was like sittin' on barbed wire."

"Serves you right."

"She's nothing like her mother. Pretentious and cold as ice."

"I didn't think so. I talked to her at the reception at Nell's house. I liked her," said Jer quietly.

"You can't be real."

"What d'ya have against her?"

"Vichy and de Gaulle, for starters."

"Okay, so you hold a few grudges against the French, but you can't condemn her for making her home there."

"That's the point. It was a choice. That says something about her."

"Why're you gettin' all worked up about this?"

"I'm not all worked up."

Jer shrugged. "Okay. So you're not worked up."

Ethan took a long draw on his beer. "I was thinkin' about asking Katie Anne to marry me."

Jer burst out in a broad and long laugh. "I knew there was somethin' naggin' at you."

Ethan looked up to see Katie Anne approaching him, her soft brown hair curling in damp ringlets around her face the way it always did after she had worked up a sweat on the dance floor. She was very appetizing then, her face flushed, her own scent mingling with the light floral perfume she wore.

Jer saw her coming. "I'm outta here," he whispered, and slipped away.

Katie Anne slid in next to Ethan on the booth and ran her hand up the inside of his leg, and Ethan forgot all about Mrs. Zeldin.

"Hi, handsome." She grinned. "Will you go get me a beer?"

"I can't," he answered gruffly. "Not unless you want me to embarrass myself."

She took a sip of Ethan's beer with her free hand. "I'll just drink yours," she said teasingly.

"How about April?" he asked.

"April?"

"For our wedding."

Katie Anne grew still, but Ethan didn't notice; he was trying to catch the attention of their waitress.

"If we have the light winter we're expecting, the house should be finished by then," he continued.

She removed her hand from his leg.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

She began to play with a lock of hair at the back of her neck, winding it around her finger. "Are you really serious about it this time?"

"What do you mean?"

Katie Anne hesitated before replying. "You keep finding reasons to put it off."

"No I don't."

"This is the third time this year we've talked about setting a date." There was an edge of exasperation in her voice.

"We discussed it, but we never actually set a date. So you can't say I put it off."

She turned away from him. "Whatever," she mumbled.

Ethan hated that expression. It made her sound juvenile and not very intelligent.

"I just want us to have a house of our own," he reasoned.

"We've been living together for over a year. Why do we need to wait until your house is built before we can get married?" she asked.

"I want things to be right."

"Things can never be right enough for you," she answered. She turned her back to him and watched the dancers.

Ethan was silent for a long time.

"I sure didn't think this would turn unpleasant," he replied after a while.

"Is it unpleasant?" she said, her back still to him. Her voice sounded odd and he wondered if she was crying.

He shook his head in confusion. "I don't understand. I ask you if you want to get married in April, and you get all worked up about the past."

"Because I don't trust you," she said, wiping away a tear.

The waitress brought their beers. Ethan took a long swig of his. Katie Anne's sat untouched. Finally, he put his arm around her and pulled her close to him. She laid her head on his shoulder and whispered, "April would be perfect."

Chapter 6

Mealtime had never been an enjoyable part of the day in the Ferguson household, and the misery of those childhood moments crept over Annette as she picked at her green beans. Charlie lifted his eyes from his plate and cast a severe glance at Eliana. Annette unconsciously stiffened.
What is she doing wrong?
Annette wondered.
What could she possibly be doing now to annoy him
? After all these years it seemed as if nothing had changed. He merely had to turn his gaze on you and you squirmed, she thought. He was doing it now to Eliana. Annette could tell the six-year-old sensed her grandfather's pall of disapproval and that she disliked him for it, but—thank goodness—there was no air of anxiety about her; she didn't fear him.

"Eliana, put the salt back in the center of the table, where everyone can reach it."

Ah, that's
what's annoying him, thought Annette as she took the salt and set it in front of her father's plate. Charlie, silently vindicated, went back to his dinner.

Eliana carefully wiped her mouth and looked up at her mother.
"Est-ce que je peux aller jouer au dehors?"
she asked.

"In English, sweetheart."

Eliana gave a sigh of boredom. "Can I go play outside?" she repeated.

"Yes. Take your plate to the sink."

Once Eliana was playing in the yard, Annette could relax. But her appetite was gone. She put down her fork and waited patiently while her father finished. His teeth were bad and he chewed slowly.

"Brisket's tough," he said, pushing his plate away.

"I'm sorry. It didn't cook long enough, I suppose."