Blake had by now darted up the stairs to the loft, Natalie plodding behind him. He all but lunged at his phone, nearly dropping it in his haste. “Oh, Natalie, lovely Natalie,” he said cheerfully, waiting for the call to connect. “I shall buy you a new pair of gloves and perhaps also a collinear hoe.”
“Thanks, but I got one for my birthday.” Impressed in spite of her blossoming terror, Natalie reminded herself that two weeks ago Blake wouldn’t have known a collinear hoe from a hula hoe, like some loser. “You’ve been paying attention.”
“Of course, I pay attention to everything you—damn. Voice mail. This is too good to leave on a soulless recording. I’ll save it. Yes. Excellent.”
Then he scampered—scampered!—across the loft and swept her up in an exuberant hug, spinning her around and giving her a noseful of sunshine and cotton and dirt, all underlaid with the clean sweat of exertion.
She almost kissed him.
Days later, dialing for the ambulance she knew wouldn’t make it, she wished she had.
Twenty-three
Finally, finally Rake began responding to his hexts and voice mails. Blake had dropped off to sleep savoring two wonderful memories: his mother’s nickname and getting Natalie Lane in his arms for seven seconds. Given how alarmed she looked when he’d hugged her, it would likely be the last time he did, and he planned to treasure the memory. Probably for the rest of my life. The farm foreman who got away. His mother’s nickname, on the other hand, he would use again and again, and he planned to treasure that as well.
He had also made up his mind about the nuclear option and decided it was past time to turn his key. He disliked the holding pattern he was in, and the nuclear option, while extreme, promised to put an end to it. Just as well Rake chose today to get back to him; he would need to be warned. As annoying as Rake was, even he didn’t deserve to go into such a situation blind.
Blake’s last thought as he dropped off was, Natalie’s hair smells like cherry blossoms, which is impossible. I wonder where she buys her shampzzzzzzzzz …
Thirty seconds later, his phone buzzed, making everything on the beside table tremble, and he groped for it. A squint at the time told him it had been eight hours, not thirty seconds. He’d never slept so well or so long in his life. For the sixty million Americans who suffered from insomnia, Heartbreak was the certain cure. Side effects: sore muscles, blisters, suntans, pony sitting, unrequited crushes.
Christ Blake I thought my phone was going to blow up what’s going on with you I mean jeez?
Blake snorted. Of course. He should have realized. Did you lose another phone, idiot?
No! I know right where it is, it’s still at the bottom of the canal, so now who’s the idiot?
Canal? Never mind. Thank you for eventually acknowledging my dozens of communiqués.
Only your phone auto-corrects communications. See? Mine didn’t. Where are you?
If you’d listened to any of your voice mails, you’d know.
And if you had a Facebook page like a real live boy, I’d also know. Where?
The fifth circle of Hell.
You’re back in Vegas?
No. The real Hell. Actual Hell.
What are you doing in L.A.?
Having an incredibly irritating text chat with my twin.
Because I’m terrible? People have told me you think I’m terrible. Personally I don’t see it.
Enough of this. Blake stopped texting and called.
“Dude!” Rake picked up immediately, in mid-yawn from the sound of it. “Do you know what time it is here?”
“No,” was Blake’s truthful answer.
“Damn. Was hoping you did, because I’d kinda like to know. I can’t tell if the new phone is right and when I use the hotel phone the guy on the other end won’t speak English.”
“I cannot help you.” Rake could be anywhere. Staten Island. Rome. London. Walmart. “And you’re a grown man who’s nearly thirty; stop using ‘dude.’ Where are you?”
“Venice, I’m pretty sure.”
Blake rolled out of bed and stretched, watching the sun come up while clutching the phone in his other hand. He instantly loosened his grip; his hands were sore. “Pretty sure? Even for you, that’s odd.”
“Venice is the one with canals instead of streets, right? And people speak Italian? And the Italian food is really good? And there’s gelato all over the place?”
“Yes, you dolt. Italy is seven hours ahead of the Central Time Zone, so that should help you narrow it down.” He shuffled over to the toaster, stifling a yawn. He had carefully cleared one of the bookshelves of the Little House series and several Carl Hiaasen novels and kept his dry goods there. Now he popped two pieces of bread in the toaster. “You are in Venice.”
“That’s a relief. It sucked, not knowing where I was.”
“Wait, you weren’t making another tiresome joke? You just woke up in Venice?”
“See? You’re not the only person having a weird month. Not to belittle your woos or anything—”
“Woes.”
“—but I’m neck deep in my own shit; I promise.”
“Your shit is not as all-encompassing as my shit, I assure you.”
“Wanna bet? I’m stranded on the other side of the planet with no money in a country where I don’t speak the language, and I don’t know where my pants are. Doesn’t that make you feel better?”*
“It does,” Blake admitted. “What’s her name?”
“There are four of them, I think.”
“Good God.”
“Now I just have to figure out which one is responsible for my being here. And what I have to do in order to get the hell out of here and get back home.”
“Rake, I know exactly how you feel.” Blake could not recall sympathizing more. “Wait. You said you’re stranded with no money. You didn’t return my call to find out what trouble I’m in; you called for a loan so I could get you out of the trouble you’re in.”
“Anything sounds bad,” Rake whined, “when you put it like that.”
“You are terrible. And it gives me genuine joy to tell you I have no money, either.” He stepped into the bathroom to brush his teeth while Rake muttered various epithets on the other end. After spitting and rinsing, Blake added, “Like me, you’ve brought this on yourself.”
“You know I hate listening to you spit.”
“There are far worse places to be stranded than Venice.”
“This is true.” Rake sounded cheerful again and Blake approved of his brother’s effervescence, though he rarely shared it. You could knock Rake down, but he never stayed prone for long. “So your messages said you’re in Mom’s hometown? And you’re working on a farm?”
“Are you asking me? If that’s what my messages said? Because you’re using an upward inflection at the end of your sentences? Like this?”
“God, I hate you … yes. I’m asking if it’s true.”
“I am incarcerated in Sweetheart.”
“Ha!”
“And I am working on a farm. Not one our mother inherited.”
“Uh, that’s good, I guess? Not really sure what you’re wanting to hear from me on this one…”
“Our great-great-grandfather built it.”
“He did?”
“Or was it our great-grandfather?”
“Are you serious with this shit?” Rake sounded incredulous. Blake could relate.
“Completely. My toast is ready.”
“Did you just say your toast is ready?”
“Is it a bad connection or are you tracking more poorly than usual? Yes. My toast beckons. And after that I might have time to steal some bacon if I can somehow lure Gary from the table. Then I must feed my pony, the terrible Margaret of Anjou, and foil whatever Plan B Garrett Hobbes may be putting into motion so his fertilizing company goes under and he’s free to open a chain of strip clubs in Hollywood. Or possibly design toilet paper.”
There was a long silence, which Blake enjoyed as he mun
ched dry toast. Finally, a tentative Rake asked, “You use the word ‘terrible’ a lot. They gave you a horse?”
Leave it to Rake to seize on the least important part of that list. “They cursed me,” Blake corrected, “with Margaret of Anjou, the foulest, cruelest, most vile pony in the history of equines. And perhaps she isn’t terrible.”
“Sorry, did you say it wasn’t terrible?”
He sigh-groaned. “She is just one more problem I can’t solve on a list of problems I can’t solve. If you’re drowning, you don’t especially care if someone pours a bucket of water over your head.”
“You need to get laid,” Rake said, his go-to answer for every problem Blake discussed with him. “Clear your pipes.”
“Vulgar.”
“And effective! Tell the truth, you haven’t gotten any farm tail, have you?”
“You are terrible.”
“Old news, big brother, and answer the question.”
Blake paused, swallowing the last of the toast, then admitted, “I don’t deny having infrequent intercourse of late.”
Rake’s crow of delight came through as though he were standing beside Blake. “Knew it! That’s Blake-ese for ‘major dry spell.’”
“By choice!” he protested. Which wasn’t the whole truth. Ava had broken it off, and he’d been unable to take the other women up on their generous offers of sex, since they were in Vegas and he wasn’t. “I’ve been trapped on the desolate prairie, and the opportunities for intercourse have been rare.” Except not really. On his trips into town he’d run across several men and women who made it clear Blake could come over and play farmhand whenever he wished. And at any other time, he would have taken at least two of the ladies up on their blunt, friendly offers.
But it wasn’t any other time. He’d seen Natalie Lane on his first day here, and that was that. He wanted Natalie Lane, he would never have Natalie Lane, he wouldn’t settle for someone who wasn’t Natalie Lane, the end; ad infinitum. Rake was terrible, but Blake was a fool.
“Okay, first thing,” Rake was yammering, “maybe you’d have more frequent intercourse if you stopped referring to it as intercourse. Just a thought.”
“It’s accurate,” he protested. And distinctly unromantic, his brain supplied. Terrible Rake, making the occasional good point.
“Hmmm.”
“Stop that.” Rake’s hmmm usually meant he was stumbling over a truth Blake had no intention of discussing, or even confronting.
“There’s a girl, isn’t there?”
“Of course not.” Natalie Lane was not a girl. She was a woman, an extraordinary, complex, puzzling, lovely woman who smelled like cherry blossoms hundreds of miles from the nearest cherry tree.
“Ugh, fine, a woman, there’s a woman stuck on the prairie with you.”
“There are several.” Evade, evade!
“Good for you, Slutty McSkank.”
“Of course I’m not interested in all of them, just Natalie Lane.” God dammit. Blake knew he was smarter than Rake, but the bastard was able to do this nearly every time! It must be his native cunning. Jackals could occasionally outwit lions, after all.
“You’re sooooo easy,” Rake chortled. “So talk about Natalie Lame.”
“Lane, you imbecile.” It was always tricky at first, speaking through gritted teeth, but Blake eventually remembered the technique. “And she’s wonderful. Smart and driven and fierce.”
“Uh-huh, and what’s the body situation? Is it wonderful to watch her arrive, or watch her leave? Or is it more about the face?”
“You are a pig.” And it was wonderful to watch her arrive and leave. “And she has a lovely face. She’s Irish and Native American and has wonderful blue eyes and gorgeous cheekbones.”
“Nice.” Rake actually sounded impressed, but he could have been referring to the room service menu.
“She’s kind,” Blake agreed, “but she doesn’t think she’s kind. And she loathes me, of course.”
“What, ‘of course’? She hasn’t known you enough to loathe you, so where’s she get off? Hey, if she doesn’t get what a great catch a history-obsessed, technology-loathing glum slutty stick-in-the-mud like you is, screw her.”
“Thank you.” Blake meant it, because he knew Rake was, in his own way, being kind. Rake could be, uh, not sweet, exactly, but loyalty was something the Tarbells had in common. Rake and Blake kept their distance from each other, but that didn’t translate to indifference. “She sees me as an apathetic interloper who has contempt for her way of life, and she’s not entirely wrong.”
“You’re too hard on yourself,” came the instant response. Blake waited, and Rake did not disappoint: “That’s my job, you apathetic, interloping jagoff. Ask her out!”
“To what end? She won’t leave Sweetheart under her own power, and I won’t stay.”
“Um, I dunno, because you like her? And she’d like you if you unclenched long enough? And it’ll make your prairie sentence go a little faster? You don’t have to marry her, for God’s sake.”
If only. He sighed. “Thank you for the advice. I’ll consider what you’ve said.”
“Uh-huh, Blake-ese for ‘You’re full of shit, but I’m way too classy to tell you.’”
“Yes.”
“So let’s talk about something we can agree on, namely, how we can get back control of our money.”
“Excellent question. And it’s fortunate you chose this week to acknowledge my messages—”
“I woke up in another country, you self-absorbed jerkass! Without pants!”
“—because you need to understand: I have employed the nuclear option.”
Another long silence broken by Rake’s whispered, “Don’t even joke about that, Bro.”
“I would never, because I agree. It’s not a thing to joke about.”
“You didn’t. Right? Blake? Come on, man; you’re winding me up. You didn’t really do that. Right? Blake? You didn’t, right?”
“Rake, our mother left me with few alternatives.”
From the phone, a tinny, hollow groan: “Oh, God.”
“And if nothing else, it will be a way to get some answers out of Shannah Banana.”
“Who? Listen, tell the truth. I won’t be mad; it’s a good joke.” Rake managed to croak a fake laugh into the phone. “Really good, but you didn’t really do it, right? The nuclear option? You’ve eloped with Natalie Lame instead—”
“Lane.”
“—and this is just a weird way for you to break it to me gently. It’s fine. I’m not mad. You really got me on that one, Bro, good one.”
Rake’s inability to focus on anything other than the nuclear option, including the wonderful nickname for their mother that she hated, spelled out in precise detail the level of his terror, and Blake’s determination.
“I did, Rake. This is not a drill. I called her last night. She’s coming.”
“You arrogant ass,” Rake breathed. “You’ve killed us all!”
“The line,” Blake said, because he had long memorized the dialogue from one of the finest movies in the history of cinema, “is ‘You arrogant ass, you’ve killed us.’* And in fact Tupolev’s arrogance did doom his crew, although technically the explosion when the torpedo impacted the hull killed them and, if not that, then the water pressure, or they drowned. Whatever the official cause of death, it was, in fact, his arrogance that doomed them all.”
“Seek help, Blake. Not just for being stupid and crazy enough to call Nonna Tarbell, but just in general. You’re completely nuts.”
“Could be.” Blake was surprised at how calm he was, how sanguine. Once you have done the unthinkable, there is nothing left to fear. “But watch yourself, little brother. It’s probably genetic.”
“Great. Just keep my name out of everything. I’ll figure out my own mess on this side of the world, and you and Nonna stay over there on your side, and we’ll meet up at Christmas or something and, I dunno, shake hands or hug or something, and that’ll be fine until our birt
hday. Assuming you even survive.”
“Yes, there’s every chance this will get me killed, and that’s only if I’m not dying at the bottom of a canyon.”
“Blake. Seriously. Call someone. You’ve lost it, dude.”
“Don’t call me dude. Godere Venezia.”
“Sorry, what?”
“It’s ‘Enjoy Venice’ in Italian.”
“Oh, shut up. Fucking show-off.” And Rake was gone.
There were worse ways to start the day, Blake decided, and celebrated his steady hands in the face of nuclear immolation with another piece of toast.
Twenty-four
He thought and thought and finally swallowed hard, and when Natalie came close to check the condition of the stall he said, “I’m meeting my grandmother for lunch. I have yet to see you take a day off and you work harder than I do. Would you like to join me?”
Except Margaret of Anjou, who had stubbornly resisted exiting the stall for the corral, chose that moment to lean against him to scratch an itch. So what came out was, “I’m meeting my graaaaggghhhh off off get off you are killing me!” He groaned and threw his elbow into the pony’s side (repeatedly), desperate to get her off his ribs, which she interpreted as the smallest brush from a random mosquito for all the attention she paid. “Cursed equine!”
“Oh, you, get over here.” Natalie, praise all the gods, had found the snack sack chock-full o’ sliced apples sprinkled with cinnamon. She shook it at Margaret of Anjou, who eyed it, then leisurely wandered to Natalie to haughtily accept … No, she was retreating to the far end of the stall, ears flattened against her head and several square teeth showing. She’d only wandered over as part of her never-ending campaign to screw with bipeds.
Fortunately, Blake had taken advantage of those few seconds of not being squashed into oblivion and scurried from the stall. He leaned on the door and carefully felt his ribs, groaning under his breath. Vile beast.
“You, um, okay?” Natalie was trying, and failing, to suppress a grin.
“Oh, of course, never better, my shattered ribs are mere flesh wounds. Stop that!” he snapped as she collapsed into giggles.
“Sorry. I am, I promise— Look, I’ve had that happen to me. Rookie mistake, letting her get you between her and the wall, and I warned you, Blake; you know I did. I know exactly how it feels, and it’s not funny, it isn’t; it’s just— Your expression—you’re usually so cool and collected—”