Coming Home to Texas--A Clean Romance Page 14

  Tony let out a shout of laughter. “Monocular vision?”

  “That means when you only have vision in one eye.”

  “I know what it means. I just never call it that.”

  “What do you call it?”

  “Being a cyclops.”

  She smiled, cupping his cheek with her hand. “A cyclops has one eye in the middle of his head. Whereas you have two beautiful dark brown eyes placed exactly where they’re supposed to be.”

  He smiled back and gave her a quick kiss. “I’m glad you like ’em. But only one of ’em works.”

  “Right. Which means you have twenty percent less peripheral vision, and no depth perception at all. None. Zero.”

  “Yep. Which stinks for quarterbacks and fighter pilots, but for most other folks it’s fine. There are a few challenges, especially at first, but you get over it. You adapt.”

  “I’m sure you do, to a degree. But there’s a limit to how much you can adapt when the raw sensory input just isn’t there. Your brain can make new neural pathways, but it can’t make you a new eye.”

  “I know all that. Let’s not talk about it now, okay? Look.”

  He swept an arm over the busy fairgrounds, the rooftops and water towers, the tree-covered ridges and rolls fading into a blue haze at the horizon.

  “We’ve got all this beautiful country spread out around us, and it’s a beautiful day, and we’re together. I just want to enjoy that.”

  “Okay.”

  She settled against him the way she used to, with her head against his chest at just the right height for him to rest his chin on it.

  He knew she hadn’t really let go of the subject. She was just giving it a rest for now. But that was okay. Before she had a chance to pick it up again, he’d show her what he could do. She’d see.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “THIS WHOLE OBSESSION of yours with the state of Texas shape is getting out of hand,” said Dalia. “It’s almost pathological.”

  Tony gave the Texas-shaped cutting board a cheerful pat. “Thanks!”

  He’d actually bought it, though Dalia thought it was wildly overpriced and said so. Now he held it out at arm’s length to admire all over again.

  “Solid mesquite, with a little knothole right where Limestone Springs should be. Isn’t that great?”

  And she had to admit it was. In spite of how hard a time she was giving him, she was secretly delighted. Cutting boards were so domestic. She’d thought at first he was interested in it as a gift, maybe to butter up her mom, but no, he wanted it for himself.

  “What’s so surprising about that?” he said. “I cook.”

  He cooks. My boyfriend cooks.

  “You grill, sure, but that’s just playing with fire.”

  “That’s not all grilling is. But I don’t just grill. I do regular kitchen-type cooking, too.”

  He tucked the cutting board under one arm and took her hand. “One night soon, I’ll make some chimichurri sauce and marinate us some steaks and cook ’em out at your mom’s. My chimichurri sauce is fantastic.”

  My boyfriend makes a fantastic chimichurri sauce.

  She could picture him, chopping and dicing and sautéing, singing along with whatever music he had going, half dancing as he moved around the kitchen. She could picture the Texas-shaped cutting board, rinsed clean and standing up to dry behind the sink, in a kitchen that looked a lot like the one he was building at La Escarpa.

  She loved listening to him talk. It was so restful. He kept up a running stream-of-consciousness monologue about all the things they saw. Once in a while she interjected a dry pithy remark, which set him off in a new and freshly hilarious direction, but there was no pressing need to keep up her end of the conversation like with most guys.

  About a year ago she’d gone out with a web developer she’d met on a dating site. He’d peppered her the whole evening with icebreaker-type questions that sounded like he’d gotten them off an online listicle with a title like “Fifty Million Great Conversation Starters for a First Date.” What’s something I wouldn’t guess about you? What are you most passionate about? What has been the most significant event of your life so far? What five places would you visit if money and time were no object? What’s the most spontaneous thing you’ve ever done? It was exhausting, like a job interview or police interrogation. It made her brain freeze up. Her answers made her sound stodgy and unimaginative, which was exactly how she’d felt. The guy didn’t call again and she didn’t care. She didn’t even remember his name.

  She felt more at home now, and more fully herself, than she had in years. She never had as much fun with anyone as she did with Tony.

  They went into a big metal barn that held all the best-in-show entries—quilts, handmade clothing, knitting, crocheting, photography. The winners already had ribbons on them.

  “Your mom should enter this,” Tony said. “She’s always knitting.”

  “That’s just because she hurt her foot,” Dalia said. “She loves knitting, but usually the ranch takes too much of her time for her to finish many projects.”

  The subject was a pretty good lead-in for something she wanted to talk to him about, but should she do it? Or was it too soon? She didn’t want to assume too much, come on too strong, make Tony think she was angling for a commitment on their first back-together date.

  Anyway, it was too late now. The moment was gone.

  The food entries came next. Plates of eggs, pies with one slice missing and various home-canned goods.

  “So many pickles!” said Tony. “Pickled okra, pickled garlic, pickled carrots, pickled grape olives.”

  All the food items were protected behind sheets of chicken wire, but Tony stuck his fingers through to touch the jars.

  “Why are you doing that?” Dalia asked, chuckling.

  “I just want to.”

  “Well, you’re not supposed to.”

  “How do you know? I don’t see any rules posted.”

  “They have that chicken wire there for a reason.”

  “Yeah, so you don’t smash the jars or try to shoplift ’em outta here. They don’t mind if you touch ’em a little.”

  They came out of the best-of-show barn into a galley-style food court area with stalls lining the sides. Tony stopped dead, clapped a hand to his stomach and took a deep breath.

  “Mmm, smell that good fried-food smell. Are you hungry? I’m starving.”

  They ate at a picnic table with a plastic tablecloth clamped on—pork chop on a stick for Tony, a gyro for Dalia and a funnel cake to share.

  “Eating outdoors is the best,” Tony said.

  “You should see the Italian Market in Philadelphia,” Dalia said. “It’s this big outdoor market spread out over twenty city blocks. My favorite taqueria is there.”

  “A taqueria, in an Italian market, in Philadelphia? That doesn’t sound right.”

  “It’s really good, though! Anyway, the market isn’t just Italian anymore. There’s all kinds of food. Vietnamese. Seafood. And cheesesteaks, of course.”

  “So there’s more to Philly than concrete and Eagles fans, huh?”

  “Oh, yeah, lots more. We’ve also got a higher murder rate than New York.”

  “Ha ha! I bet they put that on all the brochures.”

  “There are actual attractions, too. Lots of American history stuff, too, of course. Alex would love it.”

  “Oh, Alex would love it? Well, then. I should book a trip right away, for me and Alex. I wouldn’t want him to miss out on an opportunity to see some American history stuff. I mean, if it’s there to be seen, then he ought to see it.”

  She gave him a sly smile. “Yeah, you should. It would be educational. And culturally enriching. And while you’re there, you could, you know, come see me, too.”

  “Yeah? Well, forget Alex, then. You’re the
only attraction I need.”

  They finished their food and headed to the stock barn, a big metal building with stalls formed by gate panels lashed together, and plenty of fresh wood shavings on the floor, all very clean and spacious. Just inside the doorway, Tony stopped and took a deep breath, just like he’d done in the food court.

  “Don’t you love the smell of livestock?”

  “I do love it,” Dalia said. “Livestock, and farms in general.”

  “Yeah, farms smell nice. Like hay and sunshine and feed and healthy animals. Old leather, a little machine oil. Ripe compost when you spread it over the garden.”

  “Exactly! A healthy farm smells wonderful. It’s only when animals are sick or overcrowded that there’s a stink. I went out with this guy once, and when he found out I’d grown up on a ranch, he acted like it was some low-class thing, like I’d spent my childhood wallowing around in stinky muck and mire.”

  “He sounds like a real jerk. You should avoid people like him. In the future you should never go out with anyone who isn’t me.”

  For a second she almost said, You’re right, I shouldn’t. But maybe that would be too much too soon, and reading too much into what might have been a flippant, impulsive remark on his part.

  Before the silence could get awkward, Tony said, “I’ve been thinking a lot about when I was little, how me and Alex would go to our grandparents’ place, and it was so...so safe there, you know? At home there was always tension over money, and you never knew what Dad was gonna do next. Mom tried hard to hold things together, but she was always so stressed, and sometimes the best she could do was take us to the ranch and leave us there for the weekend. Everything was so different there. Harmonious. My grandparents could be pretty cantankerous, but they were on the same side, working for the same goal. Partners. They respected each other. Plus there’s this freedom to life on a ranch. You get up in the morning, and nobody tells you what to do. You figure it out for yourself, whether you’re gonna mend fence, or cut hay, or burn brush, or worm cattle, or shore up the wall of the feed barn where it’s getting a little rickety. ’Course, a lot of the time you’re responding to emergencies or the demands of the season or what kind of weather you’re having that day. But you get to make the call. And you can change things up if you want. Reconfigure the pastures. Try a new breed of cattle. Put in a field of lavender for a cash crop like that one guy over on Darst Field Road. You’re your own boss, and what you decide matters, so you better make good choices and work hard. You know what I mean?”

  “I do,” she said. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  “I didn’t appreciate it at the time the way I should have, the way Alex did. But looking back, I’m grateful I had that experience. I wish I’d had more of it. I think I’d be a better man.”

  Well, she’d never get a better lead-in than that. Quit being such a coward and tell him.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot, too,” she said. “La Escarpa is getting to be too much for my mom to run on her own. Really, I think it’s been too much for a while now. I just didn’t see it because I was away. But I’m at a point with my work where I can live wherever I want, and—”

  “You’re moving back home? That’s fantastic!”

  “Hold on! I haven’t decided yet. I’m still thinking about it. But at the very least, I’m going to be spending more time here, you know, helping out. A lot more time.”

  “What’d your mom say to that?”

  “I haven’t told her yet. I didn’t want to bring it up until I had things settled in my mind.”

  “Well, I don’t know if this counts for anything, but I vote that you move back full-time, and soon.”

  She smiled at him. “It does. It counts for a lot.”

  They worked their way through the petting zoo, where they petted some rabbits and baby goats, and two palomino horses standing just close enough to the panel for an adult or older child to reach but out of grabbing range for little kids. They petted black pigs and spotted pigs and one white pig with a pink snout and pink skin showing through its bristles, like a pig in a storybook.

  Most of the goats were Boers, with long floppy ears and short coats of white and reddish brown.

  “Aren’t Boer goats funny-looking?” said Tony. “They always look like beagles to me. A whole pack of beagles out in a pasture, grazing.”

  “Browsing,” Dalia said. “Cattle graze. Goats browse.”

  “Hey, look at those animals with the long spiral curls. Are they some sort of sheep? They kinda look like English sheepdogs.”

  “There’s a sign on the gate where that couple is sitting. Cedar Ridge Angora Goats. Huh. You know, I think La Escarpa used to have Angoras, way before my time. My dad told me about it.”

  “Oh, yeah? Cool. Well, then we should go talk to these people.”

  Dalia would have been content to slowly walk past the pen, with maybe a smile and a nod to the attractive older couple, or even a remark like Good-looking animals. Talking to strangers was a risk. You never knew what you might be letting yourself in for.

  But before she could stop him, Tony had gone right up to them and said, “Hey there! These sure are some fine animals you’ve got here. Look like they ought to be starring in a hair-product commercial. I’d use whatever they’re using.”

  The man stood. He was a big, solid guy with bright blue eyes and a kind face. “Well, thank you! They’ve got good genetics, but it does take some doing, keeping their fleeces in good condition.”

  “I’ll bet. You can’t have ’em rolling around in grass burrs or brushing against icicle cactus, can you?”

  “No, you cannot.”

  Tony put out his hand. “I’m Tony, and this is Dalia.”

  “Ray Schmidt.” He had a good firm handshake. “And my wife, Syndra.”

  Syndra had her hands full of knitting, so she just waved her needles and said, “Hi!”

  “What are you making?” Dalia asked.

  Syndra raised her arms to unfold a yard or so of light, frothy fluff with a sort of floral shape radiating from the center. “A bridal shawl.”

  “It’s beautiful. Is the fiber from your goats?”

  “It is. This is first-clip kid, which means it’s from the first clipping of a six-month-old kid. It’s finer and softer than the adult fibers. Mohair fiber—that’s what it’s called—has a lovely drape to it, and it knits up beautifully, but it doesn’t have a lot of elasticity, so the yarn is typically blended with silk or wool. This one has a silk core.”

  “It’s very lustrous, too.”

  “Yes, that’s because the scales are so tight. That means it holds dye well, too. Do you knit?”

  “No, but my mom does. She did it a little when my brother and sister and I were small, but never as much as she would have liked. Too much work on the ranch, plus riding herd on us kids. But about a month ago she hurt her foot, and ever since she’s been laid up, she’s been knocking out projects left and right.”

  “I first started knitting when I broke my ankle coming off a horse. I could never stand not to be active, so I had to find something to do.”

  “Syndra’s a born-and-bred country girl,” Ray said. “I came to rural life a little later, but I love it. Do you folks have a place?”

  “Not right now,” said Tony. “I live in town, and Dalia lives in Philadelphia, of all places. She’s home helping her mom. But she grew up on a ranch that’s been in the family since before the Texas Revolution. She and her brother and sister are the seventh generation to live there.”

  “Your family’s place wouldn’t be called La Escarpa, would it?” Ray asked.

  “Yes,” said Dalia. “Do you know it?”

  “I worked there, the summer before I started medical school. Never forgot it. Beautiful place. It was my first experience with Angoras, and the Hill Country, and rural life in general. I worked for a man called
Marcos Ramirez.”

  “That was my grandfather!”

  “Then Martin must be your dad.”

  “You knew my dad?”

  “I did indeed. Of course, he was just a little bitty boy back then, strutting around in his Lucchese boots. He was the most meticulous kid I ever saw. Always as neat and pressed as if he’d just stepped out of a bandbox. Always had his shirt tucked in and his hat on straight and his boots clean. Good worker, too. Is he still a rancher? Is he here today?”

  Tony saved her from having to answer. “Unfortunately, Martin passed away a few years back.”

  Ray frowned. “Oh, it doesn’t seem right I should live to hear that. I’m so sorry. He was such a self-contained little guy, quiet and polite, with this intensity about him. He always seemed to know exactly who he was and where he belonged.”

  “Very true,” said Tony. “He wasn’t the most fun person in the world to deal with for anyone who wanted to date his daughter, but he was tough and hardworking and fair. He had integrity.”

  Ray told some stories about Dalia’s dad as a boy, and they talked about the care of Angora goats and the market for mohair.

  Finally Tony said, “We’d better get going if we want to get good seats at the rodeo.”

  Syndra gave Dalia a business card, and Dalia gave Syndra her email address. Ray thought he might have some pictures from his summer at La Escarpa. Syndra also gave Dalia bags of yarn and roving to take home to her mother.

  As they walked away, Dalia took Tony’s hand in hers. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For talking to those people. I never would have done it on my own, and I’d have missed out on all that.”

  “Ah, it’s no problem. I liked doing it.”

  “I know. That’s the best thing about it. You were just being yourself. So thanks for that.”

  “Well, you’re very welcome. And there’s plenty more where that came from. I can be myself all day long.”

  “Good. Because I...I like who you are.”

  It wasn’t quite what she’d wanted to say, but it was close enough for now. She wanted to say she needed him, but it was a little early in the day for that sort of talk.