Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [40]
“Those were difficult times.” Steve showed her a book with black and white photos of tribal leaders and groups on the reservation. Was one of those barefoot boys her great-grandfather William Cordon Sutton? Even with his fine English name, society must have viewed him as tainted by his half-breed mother’s blood.
Steve pushed the papers away. “I’m starving.” He looked at her as if deciding. “Let me buy over at the hotel restaurant.” Casual, not like asking for a date.
He stood and extended a hand. Golden hairs flecked its back and his square-nailed fingers looked sturdy.
Clare slid her hand into his. As a scientist, he didn’t bear the calluses that she did and she hoped he didn’t notice. A tremor in his fingers reminded her once more of the splendid waste he was making of his life.
Her temptation to continue their conversation passed when he said, “A cold one would do about now.”
“Thanks.” She moved toward the door. “But I believe I’ll get on the road.”
CHAPTER NINE
August 4
In her cabin at Old Faithful, Clare lay in bed with the same trepidation she felt each night, fearing dreams of death awaited. It was past one and she had to be up at the usual four-thirty. After driving back from Mammoth, she should be asleep, but it was difficult. Some nights, she read until late, and others, she walked. Last Friday she’d been able to read under the spotlight of a full moon.
Escaping into a book was one kind of therapy, but after a while, she forced herself to put it aside. On her walks, she absorbed the peaceful surroundings and wondered where her life was going. In many ways, she was reminded of when she used to walk to school and weave elaborate fantasies of what she was going to be when she grew up.
At five, she had wanted to win Olympic gold, already interested in swimming and other sports. At ten, the goal was to be a famous heart surgeon like the men in South Africa and Houston who saved lives. When she’d passed the fire station and had her face washed by Cinders their Dalmatian, she had never imagined ending up in a place like that.
But her summer nights’ dreams dredged forgotten memories of stopping in at the station and sampling stews concocted by a kindly older fireman who reminded her of Frank. Of becoming a sort of Bellaire Fire Department mascot and riding a ladder unit in the Fourth of July Parade. Of hearing the alarm and seeing the men—no women then—pile on their equipment and drive away to the blended wail of sirens. She had watched them until they were out of sight.
This evening at Old Faithful, Clare had made the two-mile round trip to the Morning Glory Pool through a gray landscape lit by stars. On the way back, she’d had a private viewing of Castle Geyser’s pale foaming rush against the darker sky. For the first time in years, she’d thought about having someone to walk with her.
In the early days of their marriage, when Houston’s summer heat gave way to sultry evening, she and Jay used to take strolls. Cicadas sawed their sharp song and water bugs skated on Buffalo Bayou’s low water. At first, Jay carried Devon in a pack against his chest and later he pushed the stroller. As their daughter grew, she’d run free, taking fifty steps to one of her parents’, flitting to investigate a rose or chase a lightning bug.
Devon had been the first to drop out of their walks, pleading homework, but Clare suspected TV. Then Clare moved from P.E. teacher to basketball coach with evening games and practices. As their lives diverged, those ritual strolls had slipped away almost without her notice.
Come to think, on nights when Jay was home, he’d carried on alone. Looking back, she wondered if he’d been meeting Elyssa Hendron or some other woman years before she suspected.
Over a week, and she