Category:

Beside me, Rich sleeps like the newly dead. I almost laugh because his mouth in an O looks as if he's about to blow a bubble. Just before he went to bed, he threw a few things in his bag for—where is he going? Investigating an environmental disaster in Alaska, I think he said. Oil. A spill. At least better than the last trip into Somalia, where the engine stalled and a gang of bandits tried to overtake the boat he and the photographer hired. Every night, as his head touches the pillow, he conks out for dreamless hours. I don't envy him that—there's something primitive about it—though my insomnia is crazy-making and something equally primitive lurks there, too. His snoring does make me laugh. Alpha bear guarding the cave entrance?

*  *  *

Rich hears the bedroom door creak, then click shut. She's wandering, as usual. Lee often doesn't know what sleep is. I left her a melatonin by her toothbrush before I signed off. This day lasted a week. I think the kids would have preferred to throw steaks on the grill, but I was told this had to be an occasion. Lee damned made sure it was. Dinner was memorable, those quail from our shoot down in Thomasville, near where Charlotte comes from. Odd to think of Lee's mother as a South Georgia girl once upon some godforsaken time down in the pineys. At least the old bird behaved tonight. Unlike at Big Mann's wake. Lord, when she stood by the casket at the funeral home and burst out with "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down." Flabbergasted the visitors who were there to offer condolences. And not only. She'd arranged for church bells to ring all over town after the service. Nothing grand enough for Big Mann. Rich smiled in the dark. A mother-in-law for the books. Someone should write a book. Her breed is disappearing—or never was. Who could write, Lee? Not me, no way. Being son-in-law is enough. Tomorrow—three flight changes to get to Fairbanks. A four-wheel waiting, the map in my backpack already marked. Lee will be alone, as much as she ever is, with Dara and Austin on their uncharted way and her mama heading south to her eagle's nest at Indigo Island. Too damn bad Big Mann croaked. He was a right SOB, bigger than life.

Rich closes his eyes and lets himself travel around the table, looking at every guest, pegging each into the picture of Dara's future. Best and brightest? Some of them. Moira, maybe not anymore. A future here in town writing for the Regulator News? So much for the Vanderbilt summa cum laude. Married to poker-face, frizzy-hair, what's his name? Ear specialist in Lee's dad's old practice. Carleton, that's it. Moira might turn into one of those who suck lemons for a living. He flashed on her and Dara bonding at nine over horse madness. Camps. Overwrought thoroughbreds snorting fog on winter mornings. Dara's mess in the kitchen when she concocted grain and cereal mixes for the stable horses' Christmas breakfast. Those tedious dressage shows. Hauling the horse in a wobbly trailer over to Winston and Charlotte. Dara, small on that beast Chelsea, sailing over jumps, trotting off with a big smile. Except when she didn't. Two falls. Dislocated shoulder and jammed knee. Those gone days, thank you, Jesus. That horse we bought off the racetrack out to pasture somewhere. Mei Hwang, fragile. Thin as a straw. When I dropped off the dry cleaning, she was always there, little thing cutting out paper patterns, her parents taking in the shirts. Now she designs. Even making Dara's wedding dress. Rich smiled again, remembering Dara telling him Mei used to try on the dresses and sweaters women brought in to be cleaned. Daringly wore some to high school games. Spunky girl. The two guys, Austin's friends, arriving today, out tomorrow early. Big lives under way. Luke something, the American one, from Florida somehow got himself to Cambridge. Architect, too. All architects wear black and those thin glasses? Big smiles to match big lives, especially the Indian guy, Amit something. Luke seemed to lean toward the Hwang girl. Humble family, but this girl emerged with a cool natural dignity and poise.

Austin strikes me as quite a particular guy. I get the feeling of rumbling currents under smooth water. What does he have that draws Dara? Well, looks. He's a match for her there. Probably Fairfield Porter would have liked to paint his type, the casual, lanky poise made to hang a good linen suit on. Bony, maybe. A cut above the creeps Dara brought around previously. Man, she could pick them. Rich paused and let an image of Austin frame itself in his mind's eye. His face looks sculptural. Molded lips. High cheekbones. Those squared shoulders more elegant than strong. Tennis player, no doubt, not a hard-core athlete. He closes his eyes and feels a whoosh of excitement from his own early fame, the crack of the bat, the flat-out run to first. Dust swirling in the field lights. The Purple Hurricanes, jersey number 15.