As Valerie walked her toward the door, it opened as though by magic, and Ellie saw a room with a table that could seat at least fifty people. And to Ellie’s eye, most of northern California was inside the room. While Ellie’d been shopping all day, Valerie had been putting together a little impromptu party the size of a state banquet.
Once Ellie put her foot over the threshold, her life was no longer her own. Instantly, she was surrounded by women holding out books to be autographed and telling her how much they loved her stories. She didn’t get to eat much at dinner because, one by one, every person at the table asked her THE question: Where do you get your ideas? It was what she was always asked wherever she went, and she tried to be as honest as she could be.
But of course she held back the truth. She couldn’t very well say that today she’d walked into a barn and seen some ranch hand in a leather apron, with nails sticking out of his mouth, and she’d almost torn his clothes off. And even if she never saw the man again, she was sure that this scene, which she had recorded on paper in its entirety, would someday be in one of her books.
Since she was the guest of honor, the people seated on either side of her changed with each new course of food that was served. Ellie had to hand it to Valerie, she might live in the middle of nowhere on a ranch, surrounded mostly by cows, but she did know how to live. The plates were French, the glassware Italian, the silver was English. But the food was American and plentiful.
Not that Ellie got to eat much before the next person sat down and said, “I’ve always wanted to ask a writer, Where do you get your ideas?”
While Ellie was answering this question for the fourth time, she glanced down the long, narrow dining table toward Valerie. Woody was sitting at the head, Valerie to his right. She hadn’t put herself at the opposite end of the table but beside her husband.
While Ellie answered, she kept her eyes on Valerie and Woody, as Ellie loved trying to size up people to see what was really going on with them. She’s mad about him, was the conclusion Ellie drew by the time she was on her sixth telling of where she got her ideas. When she’d first seen that Valerie was much younger than Woody, she’d assumed that he’d been married for his money. And Lew’s crack about Valerie’s shopping had solidified the idea in Ellie’s head. But now she could s
ee that it wasn’t true. Unless Valerie was the world’s greatest actress, she was madly in love with her husband.
Somehow, the sight of the two of them together, Valerie constantly touching Woody’s hand and the way Woody kept his head turned toward his wife’s, made Ellie feel very lonely. It wasn’t fair that a man could become a mega-success and still find someone to love him. But if a woman became successful . . .
Ellie didn’t want to think of what had happened in her own marriage. She didn’t want to yet again go over everything and ask herself what she could have done to make it up to Martin for her success. How could she have kept him from being jealous?
The dinner seemed to take hours, and Ellie had to stop herself from looking at her watch (new, set with turquoise) every ten minutes.
Finally, at nine-thirty, it was over and everyone was invited to go outside for drinks and moonlight swimming in a heated pool.
“I do hope you brought a suit,” Valerie said as she came up behind Ellie. “Lew said that you did some shopping.”
“Yes,” Ellie said, smiling. “And I brought some gifts for your son.”
At the mention of the child, Valerie’s face melted into a look of love that Ellie knew couldn’t be faked.
Valerie leaned closer and said softly, “Tomorrow you and I’ll get together and talk. I had to invite all these people or they never would have forgiven me. But tomorrow it’ll just be family and you can play with my son.”
Valerie said this last sentence as though she were bestowing the greatest honor in the world on Ellie.
It was Ellie’s turn to melt, because Valerie was talking about family, that thing that everyone wanted: a warm, loving group of people to be with, to live with, to share with. “I’d love that,” Ellie said sincerely.
“Good!” Valerie said; then she greeted four people who had drinks and little platters of munchies in their hands. “Yes, I’m just coming,” she called to someone else. “Leave any time you want,” she whispered to Ellie. “Your performance is over.” Then Valerie went toward the big French doors that Ellie assumed led to the pool, leaving Ellie alone with her reprieve.
Yet, for a moment, Ellie hesitated. A couple of people urged her to get some food and join them, but instead, Ellie stood where she was, not moving. She could follow Valerie and ask her who the blacksmith was in the barn. Was he like Lew, a Harvard man who happened to like to fly planes?
Or was he an itinerant farrier who had three wives in different places around the state? Did Valerie and Woody have masses of trouble with all the women visiting them and getting a serious case of the hots over the man? Was he one of those cowboy gigolos who made sure all the women guests had a great time?
Suddenly Ellie realized that every idea she’d come up with was bad. Was it Leslie or Madison who had said that not all men are bad? It was Madison. She’d said that Thomas had once been in the world and he was a very good man.
“Come join us,” said someone as he looked back at Ellie. “Moonlight and warm water. What else do you want?” the man asked, and his eyes issued an invitation.
Ellie had to stop herself from saying, “Privacy.” She was Alexandria Farrell the writer now, not Ellie Abbott, so she had to be on her best behavior. She smiled at the man and made a little motion with her hand as though to say that she wanted to go with him but she had prior commitments.
With a sigh and a shrug, he went through the doors onto the artfully lit patio.
And Ellie ran out the side door that she knew led to her dear little guesthouse, which right now seemed to be a haven of peace and refuge.
Once she was alone and away from the others, Ellie felt relieved, but she also had the feeling that something was going to happen. She was jittery inside, expectant. For a while she stood on the porch and looked out at the night. She could hear music from the house, and she was glad that she wasn’t there with the crowd.
She walked all the way around the porch, straining her eyes to see into the darkness. Where was he? she wondered. Why hadn’t he come to her?
After about thirty minutes had passed and the high mountain air grew cold, she rubbed her arms and went inside the house. The lights were soft and the furnishings inviting. She liked the little house.
For a while she tried to write in her journal, but she couldn’t focus her mind. She was waiting for something.