friends and—”
“What about the doctor?”
“Doctor? Are you sick?”
“I'm not sick. But I'm not stupid, either. And I don't like being used. As some kind of substitute.”
Her face wrinkled into a puzzled frown. “What?”
“You're married.”
She set her mug down with a thud. “No, I'm not. I was, but I'm not anymore.” She tried for a casual, I-don't-care tone and it almost worked. If her lip hadn't quivered it would have. The truth was that she did care. She cared that her marriage had failed. She cared that she'd put so much into it and had nothing to show for it. Nothing but a determination not to let it happen again. She pressed her lips together. No more quivering. No more tears.
“What happened?” he asked, bracing his elbows on the old pine table.
She almost told him it was none of his business. But there was something in his eyes. It wasn't sympathy. She hated sympathy. That was why she'd left San Francisco. Everybody felt so sorry for her. Even if they didn't say anything. It was there in their eyes.
It wasn't understanding, either. How could he possibly understand? He didn't know her. He didn't know Brandon. It was just interest. Interest in her, as a neighbor, and in her story. Was that what she was looking for? Was that what she'd come a thousand miles to find?
She took a sip of coffee, then gazed off over his head and out the window to the barn and the fields beyond. She never intended to tell a stranger the story of her marriage, but somehow the words tumbled out.
“He wanted some space,” she said.
“Space?”
“Yes, you know. He felt like he'd been crowded all his life. His parents pushed him to succeed, first to get into the right college, then medical school, internship, residency. It was nonstop work, work, work, for years and years.”
“Tell me about it,” Zeb muttered.
“And now that he's made it he's got his own practice, and money coming in, he wants to live a little.”
“And you don't?” he asked.
“Of course, but in a different way. He, uh, he wants to go out with other women. He is going out with other women. Was going out with other women.”
Once those words spoken aloud would have filled her with humiliation. Now, just getting them out into the air gave her a feeling of relief.
“Not exactly conducive to a good marriage,” Zeb said dryly.
“No. Are you speaking from experience?” she asked hesitantly. She expected him to tell her it was none of her business. But she hated spilling her guts to someone she knew so little about.
“No. But I came close once. And I've observed some happy marriages and some unhappy ones. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to know you can't cheat. There goes love. There goes trust. Out the window.”
He glanced out the open window over the kitchen sink at the gray skies. Then he stood abruptly and closed it with a loud bang, as if that would keep love and trust inside. It signaled an end to the conversation.
“And now if you'll excuse me.”
“Of course. I'm keeping you from your work. I just wanted—”
“To thank me, I know.” He took his hat from the rack and reached for the door.
“Not only that,” she said running her damp palms down the sides of her jeans. What was wrong with her, a seasoned San Francisco hostess, accustomed to giving dinner parties for twelve, afraid to ask one cowboy to dinner? If she didn't speak now, he'd be out the door in a second. “I was wondering if you'd like to come to dinner tonight.” There, she'd said it
“Dinner?” he asked, stupefied.
“Yes, dinner. Now that I've got my supplies, I wanted to celebrate. And I owe you for the other night and now for breakfast. It won't be elaborate, all I've got is the little stove, but I thought I could...” She was blathering. Unable to stop. Afraid if she did, he'd say no. For some reason it was terribly important for him to say yes. If she kept talking, he'd keep standing there with his hand on the doorknob, staring at her as
“What about the doctor?”
“Doctor? Are you sick?”
“I'm not sick. But I'm not stupid, either. And I don't like being used. As some kind of substitute.”
Her face wrinkled into a puzzled frown. “What?”
“You're married.”
She set her mug down with a thud. “No, I'm not. I was, but I'm not anymore.” She tried for a casual, I-don't-care tone and it almost worked. If her lip hadn't quivered it would have. The truth was that she did care. She cared that her marriage had failed. She cared that she'd put so much into it and had nothing to show for it. Nothing but a determination not to let it happen again. She pressed her lips together. No more quivering. No more tears.
“What happened?” he asked, bracing his elbows on the old pine table.
She almost told him it was none of his business. But there was something in his eyes. It wasn't sympathy. She hated sympathy. That was why she'd left San Francisco. Everybody felt so sorry for her. Even if they didn't say anything. It was there in their eyes.
It wasn't understanding, either. How could he possibly understand? He didn't know her. He didn't know Brandon. It was just interest. Interest in her, as a neighbor, and in her story. Was that what she was looking for? Was that what she'd come a thousand miles to find?
She took a sip of coffee, then gazed off over his head and out the window to the barn and the fields beyond. She never intended to tell a stranger the story of her marriage, but somehow the words tumbled out.
“He wanted some space,” she said.
“Space?”
“Yes, you know. He felt like he'd been crowded all his life. His parents pushed him to succeed, first to get into the right college, then medical school, internship, residency. It was nonstop work, work, work, for years and years.”
“Tell me about it,” Zeb muttered.
“And now that he's made it he's got his own practice, and money coming in, he wants to live a little.”
“And you don't?” he asked.
“Of course, but in a different way. He, uh, he wants to go out with other women. He is going out with other women. Was going out with other women.”
Once those words spoken aloud would have filled her with humiliation. Now, just getting them out into the air gave her a feeling of relief.
“Not exactly conducive to a good marriage,” Zeb said dryly.
“No. Are you speaking from experience?” she asked hesitantly. She expected him to tell her it was none of her business. But she hated spilling her guts to someone she knew so little about.
“No. But I came close once. And I've observed some happy marriages and some unhappy ones. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to know you can't cheat. There goes love. There goes trust. Out the window.”
He glanced out the open window over the kitchen sink at the gray skies. Then he stood abruptly and closed it with a loud bang, as if that would keep love and trust inside. It signaled an end to the conversation.
“And now if you'll excuse me.”
“Of course. I'm keeping you from your work. I just wanted—”
“To thank me, I know.” He took his hat from the rack and reached for the door.
“Not only that,” she said running her damp palms down the sides of her jeans. What was wrong with her, a seasoned San Francisco hostess, accustomed to giving dinner parties for twelve, afraid to ask one cowboy to dinner? If she didn't speak now, he'd be out the door in a second. “I was wondering if you'd like to come to dinner tonight.” There, she'd said it
“Dinner?” he asked, stupefied.
“Yes, dinner. Now that I've got my supplies, I wanted to celebrate. And I owe you for the other night and now for breakfast. It won't be elaborate, all I've got is the little stove, but I thought I could...” She was blathering. Unable to stop. Afraid if she did, he'd say no. For some reason it was terribly important for him to say yes. If she kept talking, he'd keep standing there with his hand on the doorknob, staring at her as
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