For All Their Lives (32 page)

The German stared at him with a blank face. She didn't know any such thing. She'd assumed the elderly gentleman paid her wages, and until this evening, she hadn't known the man now standing in front of her existed. She nodded.

While the housekeeper busied herself, Mac rummaged in the hall closet for his riding boots and a heavy sweater. He'd long ago moved some of his belongings here because Alice said his boots and riding clothes smelled up her scented closet.

His horse, Jeopardy, welcomed him the way a lover would, nuzzling Mac's hands, and neck, and whickering softly. “Hi, fella, hope you missed me. I sure as hell missed you.” The gelding whickered again, his tail swishing furiously. Mac could feel the animal tremble when he saddled him. A man and his horse. God!

The moment they were out of the paddock, Mac gave the horse his head. He raced like the wind, faster than the wind, huge clumps of soft earth flying upward from his stampeding hooves.

“Go, boy, go,” Mac shouted, and Jeopardy heeded his master's voice. They were neck and neck with the elder Carlin's car and then they were ahead of it until finally they were so distanced from the Mercedes that Marcus Carlin pulled over to the side of the road.

He knows,
the judge thought fearfully. He knows and he's going to make me pay. His shoulders sagged, then righted and sagged again when he saw the powerful gelding and its master silhouetted in the moonlight. His brother-in-law Harry's face rose like a phoenix in front of his car. Marcus cringed against the luxurious leather seat. “You told him,” he hissed. “I'm glad you're dead, you bastard! Glad! Glad! Glad! Rot in hell!”

From her position at her bedroom window, Alice watched her husband fly across the field. She saw the huge clumps of earth scatter backward. She was afraid of the horse, and more afraid of the man riding it. She trembled with that fear the moment she realized Marcus Carlin was afraid too. She'd seen it in his eyes this evening, and it had stunned her. The tables were turned now and Mac was in control. The realization brought a second wave of fear. Would Mac really divorce her? He'd already moved out of the house, and he'd been back less than an hour. “I'm not giving this up, I'm not!” she muttered.

It was after ten when Mac returned to the stable. He rubbed down the gelding, then brushed him. He talked affectionately as he worked. Jeopardy whickered softly and snorted his approval of his master's brisk strokes. He chomped down on the crisp apple Mac withdrew from the bin at the end of his stall, and sugar cubes brought a soft whinny of pleasure.

“We'll do this again and again, big fella,” Mac crooned softly, his face against the huge animal's head. “Casey would have loved you. You would have liked her too. She'd have been like a feather on your back . . . you'll never know now. It's all gone, and I can't get it back. I wanted it so bad. It wasn't too much to want, to expect. Everyone has the right to a little happiness. I don't even know where they . . . where they sent her. I need to know. She didn't have anyone either. What do you think, Jep, will I ever get over this? Will I ever be whole again?” He felt the gelding's warm breath on his cheek as the huge animal reacted to the sorrow in his master's voice.

“See you tomorrow, Jep. We'll head out right after breakfast and make a day of it. I have a lot of thinking to do.”

The guest cottage was ablaze. Obviously Olga liked light as much as his wife.

The closed-up, musty odor was gone, replaced by a fresh citrusy smell that was pleasing. The fire was in need of another log. The fresh smell of coffee mingled with the scent of pinecones popping in the fireplace. This was cozy, this was real. This, he decided, was as close to a home as he was ever going to get. He liked the worn leather furniture, the shabby rugs, the old-fashioned kitchen. When his new housekeeper arrived, he would ask her to get some green plants and maybe some flowers that would bloom indoors. He was going to get a dog too, first thing tomorrow. Man, horse, and dog. It sounded right. He headed for the stairs, but not before he shot the security bolts home on both doors. The only way anyone was going to cross the threshold of this house was by invitation.

Fresh from his shower, dressed in an old terry robe and slippers, Mac made his way to the kitchen, where he poured out a huge mug of coffee for himself. The refrigerator was stocked as ordered, right down to the mustard for his ham sandwich. He carried everything back to the study, flipping on the television before he sat down. He finished the sandwich and coffee. Then he cried. He ached to have someone hold him, ached for someone to tell him it was going to be all right, ached for someone to reassure him that time would heal him.

If it was possible to lose one's soul before death, Mac Carlin lost his in that moment, for he offered it up to the Supreme Being. “Take care of her,” he pleaded brokenly.

Bullshit,
he was not going to wait till tomorrow to get a dog. In five minutes he was dressed in jeans, shirt, and shearling jacket. He knew where the pound was and he could be there in fifteen minutes. He climbed into a Jaguar in his garage and wondered who it belonged to. Probably him. It smelled like perfume and hair spray. He rolled down the window. He laughed all the way to the pound, but it was a hurt, bewildered sound. As if a dog could ever take Casey's place. “It's a goddamn place to start,” he muttered as he swerved into the lighted gravel parking lot.

Inside, lights shot to life as dog after dog barked furiously. An intruder was in their midst. A grumpy little man with a bald head opened the door as he struggled to fit the arms of his eyeglasses over his ears. “Whatcha want at this time of night, mister?”

“A dog.”

“We close at six. We open at seven. Come back then,” he said, preparing to shut the door.

“Wait, you don't understand. I
need
a dog. I need it now. I'll pay whatever you want. Two dogs, two is good. How about if I take two? Can I get them now?” he asked desperately. He wasn't going home without a dog. He must have conveyed that message, because the grumpy little man opened the door wider.

“What kind of dog do you want? You said two. What kind, mister?”

What kind. Hell, he didn't know. “A man's dog,” he said stupidly. “A buddy, a dog I can be pals with.”

“You said two,” the little man said spiritedly.

“Okay, two. Dogs who will respond to the names . . . Fred and Gus.” The little man raised sharp eyes. He'd caught the catch in the man's voice, saw the mist in his eyes.

“Got just the dogs, mister. Two golden retrievers. Five months old. Eight to the litter, no one wanted these last two. Five hundred bucks, papers and all. AKC registered. Beauties.”

Mac dropped to his haunches when the dogs were led out of their pens. They eyed him warily before he fixed leashes to their collars.

“They're frisky little devils. Never been outside the run, so they'll take off on you if you don't use the leash. You gonna take care of these animals, mister?”

“I think it's the other way around; they're gonna take care of me. Don't worry, I'll give them a good home.”

Money changed hands.

The dogs yipped and whined all the way back to the house. Once he thought he heard a trickle of water, but refused to confirm the sound.

It took almost an hour before the dogs calmed down enough to eat the food Mac prepared. While they ate he went around cleaning up their puddles. He definitely needed a housekeeper.

They were curious, he noticed, poking and sniffing everything, finally flopping down by the fire, their golden heads between their paws, their eyes unblinkingly on him. “You, on the left, you're Fred. You're Gus,” Mac said pointing to each of them. At least one part of the dream was coming true. Casey had said she would name her dog Fred. He'd said he'd call his Gus.

Done.

It was two in the morning when he walked up the steps to the second floor, both dogs at his heels. He undressed, added a log to the fire, and climbed into bed. Two pairs of eyes watched his every movement. Five minutes after he turned out the light and settled himself, he felt first one thump and then another. He laughed into his pillow.

He had someone. It didn't matter that they were animals. They were his, and they were part of the dream. His and Casey's dream.

For the first time since learning of Casey's death, Mac slept through the night.

Two days later Mac left the United States Army. At ten o‘clock in the morning he was Major Malcolm Carlin. At eleven o'clock he was Malcolm Carlin, civilian.

Two things happened the afternoon he turned civilian. His new housekeeper, an amazon of a woman, arrived. She towered over him by a good two inches. She also outweighed him by forty pounds. She said her name was Yolanda Angelique Magdalena Consuela Chavez. “Call me Yody,” she said, emitting a deep belly laugh that frightened the dogs.

“What shall I call you?”

“Mac will be fine, Yody.”

“These animals, they are trained, yes?”

“No, they aren't. I just got them the day before yesterday. I'm working on it.” Mac grimaced as he thought of all the puddles and crap he'd cleaned up.

“Tomorrow they will be trained,” Yody said firmly. Mac believed her. The dogs slunk out of the room to pee in the middle of the kitchen floor.

“Miss Switzer said you wished some plants and flowers. I can do this. What else do you wish me to do?”

“Cook, shop, iron. I don't like to do dishes. I like clean sheets. I'll try not to be under your feet. For the time being, I'll be here. Take whichever bedroom you like.”

“Señor Mac, would you object if I had my trailer moved here? I do not like to stay in my employer's house. I wish to sleep in my own bed. I snore quite loudly and I have two . . . cats. I cannot give them up. I like to be among my own things in the evening when the day is done. Is this a problem?” she asked quietly.

“No, not at all. When can you start to work?”

“I have already started. I am here. My trailer will arrive in a few hours. One of my cousins will hook up the electricity and water. The cats will be no problem for your animals. They are indoor animals, and they are declawed.”

“Is the salary agreeable?”

“Yes, very agreeable. But I do not like to do dishes either.”

“Hell, I can eat off paper plates. Don't we have a dishwasher?”

“I don't know, Senor Mac. Do we?”

“Guess we don't. We'll buy one. Today. Call up someone and tell him to deliver it.”

“My cousins can do this. Then it is arranged?”

“Yes.” Mac waved his hands about. “Just look till you find what you want. Do you need money?”

“I will keep a book for the expenses. I wish to be paid at the beginning of each month. Medical insurance is provided and Social Security?” Her tone of voice said it damn well better be.

“Well, sure. If that's what you want. If there's nothing else, I think I'm going for a ride. On a horse,” he said. He whistled for the dogs, who came on the run, skidding to a stop in front of Yody.

“No, they do not go. They stay with me until they learn what every animal must know—they do their business outside.” One long arm shot out, the index finger pointing toward the kitchen, into which the dogs, whimpering, slunk on their bellies.

He was curious as hell in the days to come, but Mac refused to ask Yody how she trained both dogs in one day's time. Obviously she hadn't mistreated them in any way, for they adored her. But all she had to do was point with her long arm and she had instant obedience. In the barn he'd tried the same thing, but all the dogs did was lick and jump all over him.

Yody was the second best thing that ever happened to him.

The next thing that happened to him that day was he met the child who carried his name. That's the way he thought of her—
the child.
He purposely waited until he heard the sound of his wife's car leaving the garage before he walked to the house. This time he didn't ring the bell. He used his key and climbed the winding staircase. The child's room was at the end of the hall, the room that had been his nursery when he was a small child. The child was a girl so he expected that the room had been redecorated in pink with frills and ruffles. He felt a momentary pang when he realized that all the toy soldiers scampering up the wall would be gone. His mother had painted them, allowing him to dip his own small brush into the little pot of red paint so he could add his personal touch to the high-topped hats. He wondered how many coats of paint it took to cover them up. Had his childhood toys been thrown out or moved to the attic? Surely thrown out. By Alice. There wasn't a sentimental bone in Alice's body.

Mac changed direction and headed for the attic door at the opposite end of the hall. He wanted to know before he walked into the strange new room to see the strange new child.

The attic was wonderful, full of things he'd considered treasures when he was a child who'd played alone. Rusty lamps with tattered shades were sentinels guarding his domain; the huge trunks that held outdated clothes contained make-believe gems and pieces of eight. He remembered pushing and tugging till he had all the brass-bound trunks in a half circle, his fort for fighting off Apaches with broom handles and knobby-topped canes. On snowy days he'd picnicked with his wooden soldiers who were taking a break from the war.

The attic looked just the same, the way an attic is supposed to look. Perhaps there were more cobwebs, but the half-moon windows were exactly as dirty and dusty as he remembered them. The trunks were set in neat rows, and the rusty lamps were rustier, with shades full of spiderwebs. He walked up and down the small aisles created by the trunks and cartons. He looked for his Flexible Flyer with the broken runner, and his stout wagon which he'd carted all the toy soldiers to war in. There was no box full of roller skates and hockey skates. His skis were gone as well, and so were his model planes and ships. He searched for his books, those treasures he'd read far into the night, but he couldn't find them either. Everything was gone. He might as well have never lived here, he thought sadly.