my hand and held me back a moment.
"I just want to tell you something."
I looked at him.
"I'd like to get to know you a lot better, and I'm willing to be patient."
"Well, thanks," I said awkwardly, swinging my legs out the door. "I enjoyed this evening."
Regulation words, but true enough. I shut the truck door and waved; Clay started the engine. In a minute he was gone. I stood on my porch, alone, wondering what possessed me. Why didn't I want to have a little fun with Clay?
Roey yapped at me from the dog pen. I let her out, then went to the barn and fed the horses and the cow. Then the dog and cat got their dinners, and at last, I could peel my clothes off and climb into bed.
Lying there, all alone in the dark, I could feel tears on my cheeks. Why was I crying? I didn't know, exactly. Just this endless sadness.
You have got to get some help with this; it was the last thought I had before sleep blotted everything out.
SIX
I awoke to sunlight and the sound of my banty rooster crowing. The sun poured into my bedroom through the uncurtained window facing east, spreading butter-colored patches over the cream of the walls and bedspread. The little rooster's slightly hoarse crow was as cheerful as the light.
Jack, the rooster, was somewhat unreliable as an alarm clock. He was apt to crow at two in the morning, or, as now, when the sun was already well above the horizon. I had no idea what went on in his tiny brain, but I liked his cocky crowing, and the sight of him and his mate, Red, pecking around the barnyard.
Looking out the window, I could see unfettered blue sky, for once. Inexplicably, the fog had vanished. Suddenly I wanted to get up.
All the morning chores were more pleasant in the summer sunlight. Rich red tints gleamed in the mahogany floor as I carried my cup of coffee onto the porch. Roses nodded brightly on the grape stake fence around the vegetable garden. This morning, I thought, I'll tie them in.
Contemplation of the day ahead brought an immediate wave of disconcerting disinterest. Chronic depression was such a boring thing, so damn repetitive. Once again, for reasons I didn't understand, the wheel was taking me back down. One minute I was reaching out in tentative enjoyment toward the sunny morning, the next I felt like going back to bed.
Forcing myself to my feet, I took my coffee down the hill and fed the horses and the cow. Then I walked around the vegetable garden, surveying the roses, trying to see them truly through my disenchanted haze. How beautiful they were, with their seductive subtle shades, romantic associations, and long history. Madame Alfred, a cream-colored flower just flushed with warm coral, tangled with the apricot Lady Hillingdon. Buff-yellow Reve d'Or wound its way through the more intensely copper Crepuscule. Roses had become a passion of mine in the last year. I longed for them to lift my heart as they had once been able to do.
Roses made me think of Blue Winter, who grew them for a living. I had promised myself I'd go out to the rose farm this morning. For lack of any excuse not to, I decided to follow through on it.
I tied the Tea roses into the fence and weeded the tomatoes. Then I poured another cup of coffee and thought about getting dressed. I could hardly go traipsing out to the rose farm wearing my battered sweats.
Wear something sexy; I could hear Kris's voice in my head. Shutting it out, I chose jeans and a white tank top with just a little lace trim. A denim shirt worn open as a jacket, and my hair woven back into a French braid, and I was done. I had met Blue Winter on a pack trip last summer; he probably wouldn't recognize me out of jeans.
Driving toward Watsonville, I wondered what I'd say to the man. That is, if I even saw him. My last trip out here hadn't been very productive. Blue had been too busy to say much more than hello.
But today was Sunday. Surely if Blue was around at all, he'd be a little more free.
Why, just why, was I doing this? I felt like
"I just want to tell you something."
I looked at him.
"I'd like to get to know you a lot better, and I'm willing to be patient."
"Well, thanks," I said awkwardly, swinging my legs out the door. "I enjoyed this evening."
Regulation words, but true enough. I shut the truck door and waved; Clay started the engine. In a minute he was gone. I stood on my porch, alone, wondering what possessed me. Why didn't I want to have a little fun with Clay?
Roey yapped at me from the dog pen. I let her out, then went to the barn and fed the horses and the cow. Then the dog and cat got their dinners, and at last, I could peel my clothes off and climb into bed.
Lying there, all alone in the dark, I could feel tears on my cheeks. Why was I crying? I didn't know, exactly. Just this endless sadness.
You have got to get some help with this; it was the last thought I had before sleep blotted everything out.
SIX
I awoke to sunlight and the sound of my banty rooster crowing. The sun poured into my bedroom through the uncurtained window facing east, spreading butter-colored patches over the cream of the walls and bedspread. The little rooster's slightly hoarse crow was as cheerful as the light.
Jack, the rooster, was somewhat unreliable as an alarm clock. He was apt to crow at two in the morning, or, as now, when the sun was already well above the horizon. I had no idea what went on in his tiny brain, but I liked his cocky crowing, and the sight of him and his mate, Red, pecking around the barnyard.
Looking out the window, I could see unfettered blue sky, for once. Inexplicably, the fog had vanished. Suddenly I wanted to get up.
All the morning chores were more pleasant in the summer sunlight. Rich red tints gleamed in the mahogany floor as I carried my cup of coffee onto the porch. Roses nodded brightly on the grape stake fence around the vegetable garden. This morning, I thought, I'll tie them in.
Contemplation of the day ahead brought an immediate wave of disconcerting disinterest. Chronic depression was such a boring thing, so damn repetitive. Once again, for reasons I didn't understand, the wheel was taking me back down. One minute I was reaching out in tentative enjoyment toward the sunny morning, the next I felt like going back to bed.
Forcing myself to my feet, I took my coffee down the hill and fed the horses and the cow. Then I walked around the vegetable garden, surveying the roses, trying to see them truly through my disenchanted haze. How beautiful they were, with their seductive subtle shades, romantic associations, and long history. Madame Alfred, a cream-colored flower just flushed with warm coral, tangled with the apricot Lady Hillingdon. Buff-yellow Reve d'Or wound its way through the more intensely copper Crepuscule. Roses had become a passion of mine in the last year. I longed for them to lift my heart as they had once been able to do.
Roses made me think of Blue Winter, who grew them for a living. I had promised myself I'd go out to the rose farm this morning. For lack of any excuse not to, I decided to follow through on it.
I tied the Tea roses into the fence and weeded the tomatoes. Then I poured another cup of coffee and thought about getting dressed. I could hardly go traipsing out to the rose farm wearing my battered sweats.
Wear something sexy; I could hear Kris's voice in my head. Shutting it out, I chose jeans and a white tank top with just a little lace trim. A denim shirt worn open as a jacket, and my hair woven back into a French braid, and I was done. I had met Blue Winter on a pack trip last summer; he probably wouldn't recognize me out of jeans.
Driving toward Watsonville, I wondered what I'd say to the man. That is, if I even saw him. My last trip out here hadn't been very productive. Blue had been too busy to say much more than hello.
But today was Sunday. Surely if Blue was around at all, he'd be a little more free.
Why, just why, was I doing this? I felt like
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