Ariel's Crossing - Bradford Morrow [159]
As she rode the switchbacks up to the Hill, Rebecca Carpenter remembered that last phone conversation she had with her runaway daughter, and how disturbing—disabling, even—it had been to hear Mary’s buoyant assurances about life in Denver. She knew her girl better than her girl might have imagined. Had always known what transpired under the roof of her Gallup house. The war between Mary and Russ still rang in her ears, caused her to freeze up even today, thinking back. Mary’d done the right thing cutting out, but made a mistake lumping the whole family together with her father.
How to convey such an idea to her without undermining Russell was another story. Maybe some wounds never do mend.
“I’m so nervous,” she told Johnny, who was at the wheel.
“Who wouldn’t be. So am I.”
They first paid a call on Clifford, who had aged since last they saw him but seemed chipper this afternoon as he shuffled along the corridor. And he was downright ecstatic when they mentioned that they’d come also to visit Mary.
“She here now?” he asked, a broad toothy smile erupting across his white face. They hovered beside the aquarium.
“Not now,” his sister-in-law said. “But if she wants, we can bring her by tomorrow.”
“You do,” Clifford said, turning his attention back to the fish.
They checked into a motel in Los Alamos and telephoned Sarah Montoya at Pajarito. With Carl and Brice having left for Tularosa, she’d decided to let the center run itself for a few days, and taken up overseeing ranch matters until things got resolved downstate. Johnny told her, “We’re here, if Mary would still like to see us.”
The difficult delicacy of her role had never been more apparent. This collective upheaval was beginning to wear on her. She asked for their number at the motel and promised to pass it on to Mary.
“We’re only staying the night. So please let her know as soon as you can.”
“Your uncle Clifford is doing well, don’t you think?”
“It was good to see him,” Johnny said. “Tell Mary our fingers are crossed.”
Mary was sitting right there on the banco in the kitchen and heard Sarah’s half of the conversation.
“Here’s the number. Their fingers are crossed that you’ll call, your brother said.”
“Jim?”
“No, Johnny.”
“Johnny’s with my mother?”
Sarah nodded.
“Guess this is it, then.”
“Whatever kind of rapport you want with your family from here on out is up to you. Not that you haven’t held the key all along.”
Mary ran her hand over the back of her neck. Having made the decision to return the silver necklace Marcos had bought at San Felipe de Nerí for her twenty-first birthday—she’d placed it, with a note, in his dresser drawer, along with the other jewelry he’d given her—she nonetheless felt oddly naked in its absence. Unprotected somehow, exposed.
“Let me ask you a question, Mary. What’s to prevent you from trying to follow through on what you originally planned to do when you left Gallup?”
“I’m not good enough.”
“That’s not what Marcos says. You’re the best actor in that company, according to him.”
“No offense, but how would he know good acting from bad?”
“Franny Johnson wasn’t such a bad performance.”
“It couldn’t have been worse.”
“All I’m saying is, why not follow your dream, see what gives. You’re young, pretty, smart. Reconciling with Gallup might free you to go on. As it is, you’re not where you wanted to be.”
She didn’t speak.
“Marcos told me you suggested that the two of you try swimming in a larger pond than Nambé.”
“Los Angeles. He wasn’t interested.”
“Some people, I’d venture to guess most, don’t think in terms of small ponds versus big ones. Nothing wrong with believing either way. But you know it’s not how Marcos thinks.”
“He’s ambitious.”
“For his horses and family, yes. For you, too.”
“He’s going to be one of the best at what he does.”
“But for him it’s different. He doesn’t much care if anybody notices, whereas you have to.