Dreams for Stones Page 5

  Inside lay the manuscript pages, computer disks, and research material he hadn’t looked at since packing it away after Meg’s death.

  As he lifted out a portion of the manuscript, the pages slipped from his hands onto the floor. He stared at the mess as Hilstrom’s words played in his head: Fiction is our future.

  Yeah. At one time that was what he’d thought too. That fiction was his future. Along with Meg. The two of them chasing their dreams. Together. Hers to paint, his to write. Nothing impossible.

  And now. . . ?

  There was music in words. Music he no longer heard. But he could fake it, couldn’t he? Take Charles’s advice. Look at all the pages he’d written. All he needed to do was find the right disk, pop it in his computer, and print a fresh copy to submit as an attachment to his dossier. Highly unlikely anybody on the committee would even look at it. They’d just check the heft.

  He stared at the jumble of pages, knowing he couldn’t do it.

  Not even to get tenure.

  ~ ~ ~

  As Alan and Charles left the restaurant after lunch, they were just in time to see a car streak toward them, followed by the screech of locked tires and a thump. In the aftermath, a border collie lay shrieking in pain by the curb. Alan’s heart kicked into a gallop, even though he knew the dog couldn’t possibly be his Cormac.

  A woman bent over the dog, her voice melding with the animal’s cries of pain. “Ay Dios mío, Blackie.”

  Charles rushed to the woman’s side, leaving Alan standing alone, the scene freezing in front of him. Then Charles was back.

  “Alan. You have to help. You’re the one who knows about animals.” And everything began to move again as he followed Charles into the street.

  He bent over the dog and automatically began to murmur. “That’s okay. Take it easy, boy. We’ll take care of you.” He smoothed his hand over the long fur on the animal’s neck and, after a moment, the dog stopped struggling and subsided, whimpering. The woman continued crying, her words a mixture of Spanish and English. Behind him, he could hear Charles talking to someone.

  The dog’s left hind leg was gashed and was bleeding heavily, but more worrisome was the fact the animal couldn’t seem to move. Alan swallowed, clamping down on sudden nausea. “He needs a vet. You have a car?”

  “Sí. At home. I live on Albion.”

  Too far. He turned to see Charles talking to the man who had hit the dog.

  “Get my car, will you?” Alan handed his keys to Charles and pointed. “It’s around the corner.”

  “Stupid dog came out of nowhere.” The man who spoke was dressed like Charles, in a dark suit, white shirt, and conservative tie. He drummed his fingers on the hood of the silver Lexus angled into the curb near the dog. “Ran right in front of me.”

  You were speeding, and besides, if you had a heart, you wouldn’t blame the dog. Alan bit down on the words, turning away in disgust as the man leaned over, apparently checking for damage to the front of his car.

  “You seem to have this under control.” The man cleared his throat. “I, ah, have an appointment.”

  When Alan continued to ignore him, the man climbed into his car and backed away. A moment later, Charles pulled Alan’s Forester into position.

  While Charles cleared a space in back, Alan worked his coat under Blackie to make a sling. Then Charles helped him lift the dog into the car.

  Charles put his hand on Alan’s shoulder. “I have to be in court in half an hour, or I’d hang with you.”

  That was Charles for you. Just like Tom Sawyer, he sucked you into helping, then left you holding the bag, not to mention the dog.

  With his other hand, Charles handed Alan a thick wad of bills.

  “What’s this?”

  “Vet bill. Courtesy the turkey in the Lexus. He insisted.”

  Right. And Alan didn’t need a crystal ball to know how Charles had managed that. No doubt words like district attorney, legal suit, and accident report had been bandied about, obviously to good effect. Alan stuffed the money in his pocket and got into his car.

  The woman climbed into the backseat and leaned over it to calm her dog. She gave Alan directions, and he drove, taking care with corners and avoiding bumps. He pulled into the curb in front of the vet’s and slid out, saying he’d get someone.

  As Blackie was carried inside, Alan realized his hands and shirt were sticky with blood, the thick metallic scent of it overpowering the waiting-room odors of urine and disinfectant.

  He was directed to the bathroom where he cleaned up, and when he returned to the waiting room, he found Blackie’s owner rocking back and forth, her arms clutched around herself.

  He’d seen the look on the vet’s face, and he knew it would be a lie to tell her Blackie was going to be okay. “Your dog’s in good hands.”

  “Es mi culpa. I wasn’t paying attention.” The woman’s voice was thick with tears. She looked up at him, wiping her eyes.

  He tried to find words to ease his exit. He’d done enough. More than Charles had. Or the Lexus driver. She could handle it from here. It was her dog after all.

  “Accidents happen. You mustn’t blame yourself. Está bien.” He clamped his mouth shut to cut off the flow of platitudes. They’d never done him any good, why inflict them on her? He took a breath to tell her he was leaving, but just then the vet’s assistant appeared and beckoned the woman into the examining room. She stood and touched his arm. “Por favor. Please. Can you come with me?”

  He tried to say, I’d like to, but I have a class. A lie. Two lies, actually. Maybe that was why he couldn’t force the words out. If you’re in for an inch, might as well go the mile. One of his father’s favorite sayings. He must have inherited the gene.

  In the examining room, Blackie lay on a stainless steel table. When the woman touched the dog’s head and spoke softly in Spanish, it opened an eye and tried to lick her hand, but its tail lay limp and motionless.

  “I’m sorry,” the vet said. “Blackie has extensive internal injuries, and his spinal cord has been severed.”

  “No. No es posible.” The woman’s voice wobbled, and a sob escaped. “You can’t. You just can’t. Please. Delia loves him.” As if Delia’s love should make all the difference.

  And if she thought that, she didn’t have a clue how things really worked.

  The vet spoke firmly. “You know it’s the kindest thing.”

  The woman trembled. Feeling awkward, Alan laid a hand on her shoulder.

  “Está bien, it’s okay.” Alan patted. “Blackie knows you love him.”

  It must have been the right thing to say, because after a moment, the woman stopped weeping and smoothed Blackie’s head with a small hand. The dog sighed and closed its eyes.

  The assistant came in carrying a syringe, and Blackie’s owner nodded at the vet. While she continued to stroke the soft fur and murmur in Spanish, the doctor injected the contents of the syringe.

  Enough already. Alan turned abruptly and walked out. What had he been thinking to let Charles pull him into this? And once pulled in, why hadn’t he simply returned to the restaurant and called the police to help the woman?

  When he reached the waiting room, the receptionist motioned him over, handed him a plastic bag containing his jacket and told him he better move his car to the back parking lot before he got a ticket. Almost out the door, he remembered the money. He pulled it out and handed it to her. “Appreciate it if you’d use this for Blackie’s expenses.”

  The girl took the money and flipped through it quickly.

  “Will it be enough?”

  “There’s over four hundred here. That will more than cover it.”

  Alan nodded. “Good. Just give the lady any change.”

  He walked out, relieved it was over. The woman could take a bus home. It wasn’t far.

  Then he remembered those small shoulders shaking in grief. Instead of leaving, he pulled in behind the building, parked, and walked back into the clinic.

  After a
while, the woman returned to the waiting area, looking calmer, cried out perhaps. When the receptionist handed over the extra money, saying the bill had been paid, the woman turned wide, dark eyes on Alan. “Ay bendito. It’s too much. I can’t let you do it.” She held out the money to him.

  He shook his head. “It’s from the turk—the man who hit Blackie. He insisted.”

  She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. “I’m so sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused you.” Her voice caught as her eyes focused on his shirt. “And your clothes. Lo siento.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve been looking for an excuse to get rid of the jacket. Actually, I’m not crazy about this shirt either.” But he was even less crazy about shopping.

  She gave him a watery smile, holding out the money. “Please. Take this. To replace your clothes.”

  He shook his head, refusing again. “Figured you could use a ride home.”

  “Gracias.” She held out a slim hand. “I’m Grace Garibaldi.”

  “Alan Francini.” He shook her hand briefly, then opened the door and ushered her out of the clinic. “You live on Albion, you said?”

  “Sí. Near the medical center.” Her voice was still uneven.

  He kept the conversation going with simple questions as he drove her home. He learned she was from Puerto Rica and an ICU nurse who wrote children’s books in her spare time. In turn, he talked about his border collie, Cormac, and told her he was a professor at Denver State.

  He turned on Albion. “Which house?”

  “The white one on the left,” she said, pointing. “I appreciate so much what you did today. For me and Blackie. My daughter.” Her voice caught. “Delia. She’s only six. I don’t know how I’m going to tell her.”

  He pulled the car to a stop, and she turned toward him, biting her lip and holding out her hand. “Muchas gracias, Alan.”

  He shook her hand gently. “De nada, Grace.”

  Sometimes he thought that would be a relief, to live his life in a foreign language using words that held no memories.

  Grace slid out of the car and walked quickly toward the small house, turning as she reached the front stoop to wave at him. He acknowledged the wave, before driving away trying not to picture an unknown little girl named Delia who would shortly learn her dog was dead.

  ~ ~ ~

  Charles called Alan that evening. “So, what happened with the dog?”

  “It had to be put down.”

  “Too bad. Cute dog. Looked a lot like Cormac. And the owner, she was cute too.”

  “Was she? I didn’t notice.” Alan stood and walked over to lean against the balcony door.

  “You never do. You get her name or anything?”

  “Grace Garibaldi. Puerto Rican. Nurse at the med center. Lives on Albion. Writes children’s books.” He rubbed his forehead, trying to forget the rest of the details of his meeting with Grace and Blackie. “I miss anything you want to know?”

  “She a señora or a señorita?”

  “I’d guess señora.”

  “Guess? How is it you can get into a cultural, literary, and career discussion with a woman and fail to get the basic stats.”

  “She just lost her dog. Besides, she has a little girl.” That should effectively end it. Charles had an inflexible rule about dating women who had children, which meant he could hardly insist Alan do it.

  “Grace Garibaldi. Nice alliteration. That’s a literary term, you know. Got to prepare for court. Catch you later.” As usual, Charles stopped right before he tipped Alan into saying something he’d regret.

  Alan hung up and stood staring out at the darkness feeling thoroughly annoyed with Charles for his eternal nudging.

  ~ ~ ~

  Alan answered the phone in his office to find Grace Garibaldi on the other end. She’d obviously spent time tracking him down since all he’d told her was his name and that he was a professor at DSU.

  “Mira, Alan,” Grace said. “I’m calling to invite you to dinner. Delia and Frank want to meet you. To thank you for helping with Blackie.”

  Frank? Son or husband?

  “Can you possibly come this Saturday?”

  Since he spent all his weekends at the ranch, he didn’t need to consult a calendar. Still he hesitated, worrying the small mystery of Frank.

  “Frank told me it was too short notice. But I thought it was worth a try,” Grace continued, sounding hopeful.

  Okay. Frank had to be a husband. Which meant this was exactly what it seemed: a friendly invitation to dinner. “As a matter of fact, I can come.” He’d have to drive in from the ranch, but that was no biggie.

  “And bring a guest,” Grace said, clinching the Frank-as-husband hypothesis.

  “No. No guest.”

  “Can you. . . This is going to seem silly, but can you possibly bring your dog? Delia asked me to invite him.”

  “I think Cormac would enjoy a night out.”

  And Cormac wasn’t the only one. Alan was surprised at how pleased he was with the invitation. Still, he was glad he had the dog with him to help ease those first, awkward moments when he arrived at the Garibaldis’.

  Grace greeted him at the door. Behind her a little girl came skipping down the hall, right up to Cormac. She knelt and extended her hand for the dog to sniff, and when he gave it a lick, she giggled. Since Cormac hadn’t been around children much, Alan bent down to supervise the interaction, but clearly he didn’t need to worry. The collie’s tail wagged furiously, and he wiggled with pleasure as Delia hugged him.

  “Traitor,” Alan muttered.

  Grace laughed. “Mira. She does have a way with animals.”

  Then Grace introduced her husband. At first glance, Frank Garibaldi, who seemed as imperturbable as an old dog sleeping in the sun, seemed an odd choice for Grace, who was as quick and vivid as a hummingbird. But it seemed to be a happy union. And Delia was a delight, as sunny and good-natured as a puppy.

  ~ ~ ~

  After that first dinner, Alan went with Frank to the animal shelter to help pick out a new dog for Delia.

  “If Delia came, we’d end up with not only a dog, but a brace of kittens and the miscellaneous gerbil or two,” Frank said, as he and Alan moved from cage to cage, assessing the available animals. They settled on a collie mix with a sweet temperament that looked enough like Blackie to satisfy the little girl.

  Delia christened her new dog Blackie-two and begged Alan to help her train it.

  He began stopping by the Garibaldis’ a couple of afternoons a week to work with Delia and her dog. Afterward, Grace always insisted he stay for dinner.

  “It’s the least I can do, verdad? It’s so good of you to help, Alan.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Grace. Delia and I are pals.” He smiled at the little girl, who grinned back at him.

  The only downside of becoming a regular part of the Garibaldi family was that it made him more aware of how alone he was the rest of the week.

  Chapter Seven

  Kathy located the library carrel she’d reserved after her encounter with Alan Francini and got out paper and pens. She sat for a time, letting her mind drift before she began writing: So, Amanda, tell me about yourself.

  I loves ’orses, you ken. Love ’em. When everything else goes to pot, I can always count on Sukie, my black stallion. He can pull me out of the worst funk. You cannot imagine.”

  Kathy stopped writing abruptly and stared at the words. Who did Amanda think she was, Eliza Doolittle? And a black stallion named Sukie—where did that come from?

  Horses. What had made her come up with a character who wanted to drag horses into the story, when Kathy was scared to death of them? Well, she’d liked them once, before she made the personal acquaintance of a fat, scruffy one named Peaches. At a summer camp when she was ten.

  The first time Peaches began to trot, Kathy had bounced off, and everybody laughed. She’d climbed back on and promptly bounced off again. Peaches was so fat, Kathy couldn’t get a grip.

  She’d bru
shed off her clothes, determined to try yet again, when Peaches swung around and nipped her arm. Granted it was more pinch than bite, but enough was enough. Kathy had stomped away, trying not to cry. For the rest of her time at camp, she gave the stables a wide berth.

  So, if Amanda insisted on dragging horses into the story, Kathy was going to have to make peace with the equine world and possibly do some personal research.

  Or, better, she could just get rid of Amanda, who, at any rate, sounded like a ditz. But then again, if Kathy didn’t follow up on this nudge, her muse might sulk, and Kathy could end up sitting here night after night with nothing to write about. It had happened before.

  Surely she could manage one riding lesson. She lived in Colorado, after all. She’d insist on a skinny, geriatric horse that would be perfectly happy to plod along. And maybe it wouldn’t be all bad. Facing an old fear might serve as a distraction from the new fear she’d been struggling to suppress.

  She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and there it was, the dark panic that came to keep her company whenever she wasn’t busy.

  The fear, still faint, but growing more distinct, that she might never find a man she could love unreservedly. Because even if that man existed, she no longer trusted herself to recognize him.

  ~ ~ ~

  Kathy glanced from the instructions to the dirt road coming up on her right. This had to be it—exactly three point six miles from the last turn. Then she saw the sign confirming it. TapDancer Ranch.

  The minivan she’d been following since leaving the highway turned under the TapDancer sign as well. Someone else arriving for a riding lesson, no doubt.

  After another quarter of a mile, the road topped a rise, and in front of Kathy lay a valley within the curve of the foothills. She stopped the car to take it all in.

  A large, weathered barn the color of brushed pewter was the most prominent of the buildings clustered at this end of the valley. There were also a number of newer structures, surrounded by fenced-in pastures golden with grass and dotted with grazing horses. A house of wood and glass perched on a hill overlooking it all.