The Color of Wounds Page 12

  The man with the thick glasses made another check mark. “Okay. On to the intangibles. You, personally, and the CVC, as an institution, have a lot of connections with state and federal agencies. Those ties are a plus for you to get funding, of course, but they may be… a problem… when it comes to the educational environment.”

  It took Kent a moment to get his drift. “You think political pressure could affect our decisions?”

  “In a nutshell, yes.”

  “Tell me that does not happen at every other vet school.”

  “Except they are public. Taxpayer sentiment and government regulations keep them in check. That would not be true in your case. The CVC is private.”

  Kent had wrestled with this question since the idea of a CVC veterinary college had germinated in his mind. He knew it would be a concern of the committee. “I see the CVC’s autonomy as an assurance that it will not be burdened by political pressure and government regulations. We have honed our ability to work efficiently and independently.”

  The banter continued through the lunch hour. By two o’clock the discussion had changed from the big questions to minutia, and finally conversation waned as empty stomachs prevailed.

  They agreed that the committee would stay as long as necessary to clarify points brought up at the meeting. Kent assured them they were welcome for as long as they wanted to stay.

  Loren had been quiet throughout the meeting, simply staring at Kent most of the time. As the group broke up, she approached him.

  “You didn’t say much,” he said.

  She shrugged. “I know all I need to know about the CVC—and you. This inspection stuff is just for looks.”

  He gave a short laugh. “So it doesn’t matter what I do.”

  She stepped closer to him so that the lapels of her suit brushed his. “Wrong. What you do makes a big difference.” She glanced quickly around the conference room to be sure the other members had left and then pushed closer still. She kissed him lightly on the lips. “I’m staying at the Red Horse Inn. Meet me there at seven-thirty tonight for drinks and dinner and we’ll discuss details.”

  A picture of Aubrey wedged its way into Kent’s mind. But it faded as he convinced himself that it would be a mistake to offend the accreditation committee chairperson. “Okay,” he said.

  Loren picked up on the trepidation in his voice. She smiled deviously. “Seven-thirty. Sharp.”

  CHAPTER 21

  The Red Horse Inn was originally a stagecoach stop on the Cherry Valley Turnpike that connected Albany with the western frontier at Buffalo. Its history was long and refined, having accommodated many a famous American. Its colonial elegance remained as a landmark in Jefferson.

  Kent descended its seven stone steps into the inn’s basement taproom, The Groggery. It was a warm, cozy room with dark paneling, brass appointments, wall-sconce lighting, and deep leather chairs. The happy hour crowd was in full swing, and it took Kent a minute to spot Loren leaning against the bar laughing at some humorous anecdote offered by a thin man of about thirty, whom Kent felt he should recognize.

  Loren had changed out of her business suit into a shimmering metallic dress. Its scooped neck draped tantalizingly open across her breasts, and the smoothness of the fabric failed to hide the contour of her nipples in the soft light. It was short and accentuated her long legs, one of which was cocked onto the brass foot rail.

  As he approached, Loren lifted a cigarette from the gold case Kent remembered from Texas, tapped it a time or two, and placed it between her lips. The thin man fumbled frantically for a match, but this time Kent was ready, snapped his lighter deftly, and touched her cigarette with the flame.

  “Just like Humphrey Bogart,” Loren said, with a wink. Her words slurred so slightly that only someone who knew her as well as Kent did could tell she was well beyond Scotch number one.

  “Dr. Kent Stephenson, this is my new friend ...”

  “Marvin Tice,” Kent said, finishing her sentence.

  Loren blew a plume of smoke toward the ceiling but didn’t miss a beat. “Marvin Tice, this is my old friend, Kent Stephenson. I take it you know each other.”

  “Yes, we do,” Kent said, relieved that he had recognized Tice just in time. “Our newest addition to the CVC Behavioral Studies Division.” He extended a hand. “It looks like you are finding your way around Jefferson okay?”

  “So far, so good.”

  Marvin Tice was six foot four and appeared to be boot-camp fit. He had a thick growth of brown hair, cut like a golf green and extending well forward toward his dark eyes. It shaded their sockets so they seemed even deeper than they were. When he smiled, his thin face accordioned into deep slashes. His teeth were porcelain white.

  Loren looked back and forth between the two men. “Small town.”

  “I moved up from North Carolina a few months ago,” Tice said.

  “Oh, yeah? Where?”

  “Raleigh.”

  “N.C. State?”

  “Yep. Go Wolfpack.”

  “We lured him up here to work in our Behavior Center,” Kent said.

  “Animal behavior is my thing, if you want to call it that. And Phyllis Muelick is the best in the field. She’s my boss at the CVC.” Tice straightened his shoulders. “I couldn’t have come to a better place.”

  Loren did not appear impressed, and Kent suspected she was disappointed to be talking shop again.

  Tice turned back to Kent. “This may not be the right time to talk about this, so stop me if you feel like it.”

  Kent let him go, not knowing what to expect.

  “I was going to stop by your office sometime in the next few days anyway.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  Tice spoke quickly, animated, the way one speaks of a passion. “To try to recruit you to be a guinea pig in an experiment I’m planning.”

  “Careful, Kent,” Loren said. “This sounds dangerous.” She tossed back the rest of her drink and replaced it to the bar loud enough to attract the bartender’s attention. When he stepped over, she ordered a round for the three of them.

  Kent accepted his Manhattan and swirled it with a cherry impaled on a plastic sword. To Tice he asked, “So what is your experiment?”

  Tice picked the fresh mug of beer off the bar and sipped it. “I’m studying the biochemical effects of environment.” He launched into a description of how he would be comparing human versus animal responses. “I need birds, rats, cats, and primates for the animal subjects. That’s no problem. Then I’m hoping to get a few CVC staffers for human subjects. It would make it a lot easier to recruit other people if the hospital’s director was one of the subjects.”

  Kent did not answer quickly.

  Loren gestured at him with her drink. “Oh, go ahead, Kent. Give the guy a break.”

  Kent sipped his drink and asked, “What sort of testing are you talking about?”

  “Just a weekly questionnaire about your life, a blood pressure check, a quick EEG, and a blood sample.”

  “There you have it,” Loren said. “Nothing to it, Kent.”

  Kent sipped his drink, ignoring Loren’s baiting.

  “Must be he’s afraid of needles,” she said to Tice out of the side of her mouth.

  “All right,” Kent said finally. “Count me in.”

  Tice smiled, then, as if having concluded what he had come for, he finished his beer and excused himself.

  “I’ll have another,” Kent heard Loren say to the bartender.

  He kept his eyes fixed on Tice’s back as the CVC’s newest staff member headed toward the door. “Make it two.”

  “Let’s get a table,” Loren said, “I’m hungry.”

  Kent figured a little food would do Loren some good. “Lead on.”

  Her scent swirled into his nostrils as she brushed past him. He breathed it in
softly. It was fresh and light, musty sweet, and sexy. He felt the stir of a stallion in the breeding shed and tried to blame it on the Manhattan. He needed some food in his stomach as much as Loren did. But he couldn’t deny it, he was attracted to her. He remembered how good she was in bed all those years ago—energetic beyond passion, almost maniacal, fighting some personal battle even as she made love.

  In spite of the liquor, Loren was rock steady on her spike heels. She negotiated dimly lit stairs up to the dining room and an obstacle course of tables without a hitch.

  “You come here often?” she asked as they were seated at a table by a window that looked out onto Albany Street.

  “Not a lot of choices in a small town.”

  They watched their waiter light a candle in a tiny red table globe. Loren lit a cigarette from it. “With Aubrey?”

  “Usually.”

  “She’s really got you, hasn’t she?”

  His lips drew into a crease and he nodded his head slowly, thoughtfully, as if this was the first time he’d admitted that Aubrey had him under her spell. “That she does.”

  “She works at that big horse farm, right?”

  “She’s the farm manager at VinChaRo.”

  “And she taught Emily to ride?”

  Kent leaned back in his chair. It was a relief to talk about Aubrey and Emily’s success. “Mostly. Emily took some lessons before Aubrey came to Jefferson, but Aubrey is the one who got her focused on the U.S. Equestrian Team.”

  “I remember us talking about all that once before.”

  “In Texas.”

  The waiter returned. Kent ordered veal and asked the waiter to have the proprietor, a man Kent knew well, select a bottle of wine. Loren ordered brook trout and another Scotch.

  “I have a few horses myself,” Loren said after the waiter left.

  “You mentioned that at the ceremony for the Simpatico statue.”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  “I guess I never thought of you as the horsey type.”

  “I am a veterinarian. Remember?”

  “Yes, but…you are…cosmopolitan.”

  Loren drew on her cigarette. “Is that good or bad?”

  “Neither.”

  “I always liked horses. I had a few as a kid. Actually, they were a big part of why I decided to become a vet.” Her expression darkened. “The other reason I got back into horses is Jerry can’t stand them.” She looked at Kent checking to see if he understood.

  “Jerry?”

  “Otterson.”

  Loren rarely mentioned her husband. She spoke his name as if she were spitting a vile taste from her mouth.

  “He tries to control my life, take over everything I do.”

  “He hates horses so he leaves you alone to do your own thing.”

  “Precisely. Horses are my Jerry repellent.” She let out a dry laugh, then stifled it with a short cough as their dinner arrived.

  Kent ate hungrily. As usual, Loren moved the trout around her plate, but ate very little. Besides her Scotch, she drank two glasses of wine.

  When the waiter cleared their table, they declined dessert, both opting for coffee.

  Loren lit another cigarette off the candle and leaned back. “Maybe, as long as I’m going to be in town for a while, I ought to give your Aubrey a call. See if she wants to go riding some afternoon.”

  Kent showed no reaction.

  “Does she have a day off?”

  “Not officially,” he said. “She usually just sneaks away when she needs to.”

  “Think she’d want to?”

  Kent gave a neutral shrug. “Maybe. She’s pretty busy this time of year. Lots of foals to deal with. You’d have to call her, see if you can hit it right.”

  Loren studied the smoke curling up from her cigarette. “I think I’ll do that.”

  Kent tried to read his watch with a surreptitious glance.

  Loren noticed. “Got another date?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  Loren’s eyes narrowed. “With Aubrey?”

  “With the historical society. But Aubrey will be there.”

  “So she’s the civic type, too.”

  “In a nice way.”

  Loren leaned across the tiny table, allowing the front of her dress to fall open and the candle’s light to illuminate the hemispheres of her breasts. Kent felt her hand on his knee

  “I was hoping you’d see me upstairs to my room,” she said.

  Doing his best not to offend her, he lifted her hand away from his knee. “Not tonight,” he said and immediately wished he had made it sound more permanent.

  “Why not? Remember what we had before? I know you do.”

  Kent gave her a sympathetic look. “Loren, you’re good. Real good. At least you were back then, and one look at you now tells me you’ve gotten even better.” He paused, searching for the right words. “But I remember the whole picture, not just the moments. Do you?”

  Loren smiled her devious smile. “Absolutely. It was great! Each moment, the whole picture, as you call it. I think about it all the time.”

  Kent shook his head. “It was ecstasy for two hours once a week if we were lucky, then anguish and guilt for twenty-four hours a day till the next time.”

  “But you were married to Mary back then. Heaven help you. God, she was a bitch. That’s why you felt guilty. You’re not married now.”

  “But I’m committed. Totally. Not married, that’s true, but I’m a hell of a lot more committed now than when I was married.”

  He watched Loren’s eyes fill with tears as she realized she would not win this argument. After a moment, she sighed deeply and said, “I gotta go. You better get to your meeting with your historical society buddies.”

  Kent watched her, not wanting to leave their conversation on such a bad note. She stood, took one last drag on her cigarette, then crushed it into an ashtray.

  “I’ll see you at work,” she said over her shoulder.

  He caught several men and a few women studying the sway of her hips as she weaved her way between the tables and out of the Red Horse Inn.

  There was a misty rain falling when Kent stepped out of the Red Horse onto Albany Street. He looked up, eyes closed, letting the cool droplets fall on his face. He inhaled deeply, replacing the smoky vapors of the Inn with sweet night air.

  The Presbyterian Church, where the historical society held its meetings, was just two blocks away. A walk would do him good. He retrieved Lucinda, who was about at the end of her patience, from his car, and started down the sidewalk.

  Why had Loren reappeared in his life? Obviously CVC’s bid for a veterinary college was not the reason. At least not the whole reason. Chairperson or not, she had hardly spoken during his meeting with the committee. He knew for sure she had done very little investigation or fact-finding during her weeklong discovery period at the CVC. Was he being insanely vain to think she had contrived such a ponderous scheme just to rekindle a long-smoldering interest in him? He hadn’t realized the depth of her loneliness. She was drinking a lot now, more than ever before. He should have been more frank with her, told her flat out there was no chance for them, not as long as Aubrey was around. And what was this interest in horseback riding with Aubrey? He should have nipped that in the bud, too. He cursed himself for being too damn concerned about angering the chairperson of the vet school accreditation committee to say what really needed to be said. A distressing thought crossed his mind. Maybe he did not want to cut it off with Loren. No. That was ridiculous.

  As he headed toward the Presbyterian Church, frustration was apparent in his pace—long strides, heels hitting hard. Then he glanced down at Lucinda who was trotting happily at his side, not a care in the world.

  “Do you want to switch jobs with me?” he asked her. “Just for a while. I�
�ll be the dog, you be the human.”

  Lucinda just looked up at him, the shimmer of the streetlights reflecting in her eyes.

  Amazing.

  CHAPTER 22

  Floodlights cast silvery light onto the Presbyterian Church’s spire. The snow-white edifice, oldest of Jefferson’s churches, held a special spot in the center of town and in the hearts of the townspeople. Walking up its sidewalk was comforting, like a child coming home from school. He entered the side door and immediately heard voices emanating from the meeting room down the hall. The smell of coffee freshened the otherwise churchy smell.

  Through the cracked door of the meeting room he saw that the meeting was well underway. Hoping to sneak in quietly, he gave the heavy oak door a gentle push. It let out a long, loud creak, causing a dozen heads to turn his way. Flashing a sheepish smile, he tiptoed to a seat next to Aubrey.

  “You’re late,” she said, whispering the obvious.

  “Sorry. Business. Dinner with the accreditation committee chairman. It went longer than I figured it would.”

  Thankfully, Aubrey let it drop.

  Merrill was standing in front of the audience seated in folding chairs. Kent estimated there were fifty in attendance. A far larger crowd than usual. Merrill was bringing them up to speed on the case.

  Aubrey was wearing a wool sweater and jeans. She looked comfortable—and beautiful.

  Next to her was Elizabeth St. Pierre, owner of VinChaRo Farm. In the front row, sitting on the edge of her seat, back straight, chin out, hands folded in her lap as if holding a cup of tea, was the society’s president, Evelyn Hines. She was the wife of old attorney Graham Hines and took pleasure in telling people, “My grandfather was a lawyer, my father was a lawyer, I married a lawyer, and my son is a lawyer. I have no fear of going to jail.” Many in the room would have liked to see her eat those words. Graham was not present—no surprise.

  Kent was happy to see that Nigel Hoffman had made a fairly complete recovery. He sat nervously next to Evelyn. He was not talking, but his lips repeatedly mouthed the words, “Oh, my God. Oh, my God,” in response to each fact Merrill released to the group.