They walked around the side of the house and out toward the barns. The pond on the left was rippled by a small breeze stirring through the bright green limbs of the surrounding willows. “How many employees do you have here?” Stafford asked.
“We have four: Mrs. Benning is one of two full-time teachers; Mrs. Coney is the other. They alternate days, taking the kids through lunch, nap, and the afternoon activities. Mr. Jackson is only here in the early morning and i afternoons. Mrs. Hadley is our cook, but she’s only here f at mealtimes. They all have families down in Graniteville. We have a doctor and an LPN whom we can call. I live; here except when I’m traveling on research trips.”
“Do you teach?”
“Yes. I take care of individual learning problems and run the home. It’s funded by the state, which pays a per diem allowance for each child under care. There’s a lot of paperwork.”
“I’m in the government, Mrs. Warren. You don’t have to tell me about paperwork. You mentioned travel.”
“Yes, I’m a doctoral candidate at the University of Georgia in Athens.
I’m studying indigenous American sign languages. And sometimes there are other trips.”
“Like the one where we met in Atlanta?”
She stopped by the gate to the barnyard area and looked ‘- across the field to the base of the mountain that rose behind the farm. “Yes. With Jessamine.”
She did not elaborate, so Stafford kept his silence while they watched the kids groom two of the horses under the direction of an elderly black man. She’d tell him when she was ready, or not tell him at all. He sensed there was no point in his asking any direct questions about the elusive Jessamine. The warm breeze molded her dress to her body, and he was a little embarrassed at how hard it was to keep his eyes off her. He imagined for a moment that there was a sexual tension growing between them, but then he immediately dismissed it as the product of an overaetive imagination amplified by prolonged abstinence. It had been ridiculous for him to think she’d been flirting with him. And yet … They had been standing there for a few minutes when a noisy yellow school bus ground its way up the hill out front and stopped in front of the driveway. A lone passenger got out, and the school bus roared away in a cloud of diesel exhaust, wearily pursued by a stream of frustrated cars and pickup trucks. Stafford watched as the girl came up the driveway, carrying her book bag like a baby across her chest. She was dressed in baggy jeans, a blouse, and a sweater. Stafford was unable to get a clear look at her features because of the distance. The girl waved tentatively at Mrs. Warren with the fingers of her right hand, then went directly into the house., “That’s Jess,” she said.
“She doesn’t join the horse activities?” he asked. f “When the kids are done, she’ll come out to ride. She’s a teenager, Mr. Stafford. She doesn’t play with he little kids. Do you have children?”
“Nope. I was married for several years, but we recently divorced. We never made time for kids.”
She nodded but, to Stafford’s great relief, didn’t say anything.
“What’s back there, Mrs. Warren?” he asked, pointing to a gap in the willows where a well-defined path paralleling the creek led back toward the mountain’s slope.
“Please, call me Gwen,” she said. “Back there is How ell Mountain and the national wilderness area. Fancy a walk?”
“Sure, and please call me Dave.”
The path took them through the tail end of the willow grove along the banks of the creek, with the pasture fence to their right. After fifteen minutes they entered a small gorge. The green bulk of Howell Mountain loomed up on both sides. He wondered if either one of them was properly dressed for a hike in the mountains, but it quickly became apparent that this was a regular exercise path for Gwen Warren. She led the way at a fairly brisk pace, without speaking. Stafford was suddenly glad he had been exercising, although he was having to control his breathing to keep from puffing out loud. He also had some trouble balancing himself with one arm stuck in his pocket.
After twenty minutes they reached a clearing next to a pool formed by a small waterfall. The view back down the gorge was spectacular. The air was cool and clean, scented with the aroma of leaf mold, wet stone, and falling water.
The path continued on up the gorge, although it looked to be much steeper. She paused and asked how he was doing.
“Fine,” he said, still trying to mask his heavy breathing. It hadn’t looked it, but they had climbed nearly two hundred feet. Only the top of the house was visible through the trees. “How far does the path go?”
“Up to the top of the gorge. There’s a bigger waterfall up there. After that, the federal wilderness area begins. Want to continue? I always ask, because some people are unused to climbing.” He explained about his balance problem, and she walked over to the edge of the path and found him a stick. She asked him what had happened to his arm.
“I was at the wrong place at the wrong time,” he said. “Couple of hopheads hit a convenience store and started shooting. I caught a ricochet in the arm. Sitting in my car, if you can believe it.”
“Did you shoot back?”
“No, this one came through the window. We’re not normally armed, Gwen.
I’m not a street cop. Most of what I do involves unarmed paperwork.”
She smiled. “Will you get it back?”
He took his hand out of his pocket and extended his arm slowly and very carefully. His right hand was somewhat pale in comparison with his left. He was barely able to make a fist, and his fingers trembled visibly.
“They tell me yes,” he said, trying not to show the strain he was feeling. “I do a series of rehab exercises, and I guess there is some minimal progress.”
He was surprised when she took his right hand in both of hers. Her hands were surprisingly warm. “Keep trying,” she said. “At our age, minimal progress constitutes victory.” Then she smiled at him again, released his hand gently, and turned to continue up the trail.
He took off his suit’jacket, loosened his tie, and put his hand back in his pants pocket while he followed her up the mountainside. It was harder going, with more rocks and ruts than before, but with the stick, he made better progress and was mostly able to keep up with her. He was content to enjoy the mountain scenery as well as the occasional glimpse of her beautiful legs ahead of him. Forty minutes later they reached the second waterfall, which was indeed much larger. The spray from the water chilled the air, causing him put his coat back on, even while he thought how nice it would be to plunge into the deep pool at the bottom of the falls. She must have read his thoughts.
“I sometimes come up here to swim,” she said. “Although that’s a lot colder than it looks. We’re nearly to the top of the pass; let’s finish the climb and then we can rest.””
He followed her again, this time on a path that snaked diagonally across the side of the mountain, whose top appeared to be nearly a thousand feet above them, until they reached another notch in the mountain. The path up this defile was steep and narrow, and he had to concentrate on keeping his footing. A couple of times he nearly went down on all fours to maintain his balance. Gwen, he noticed, was simply picking her footing more carefully than he was. After fifteen minutes, they reached the top, where she sat down on a flat benchlike rock. He stood by the rock for a moment to recover his breath. He noticed that she did not seem to be particularly winded, although the direct sunlight had brought out a sheen of perspiration on her brow. She hiked the dress back up over her knees, and extended her feet to stretch her legs. He looked away, not wanting to be caught staring at her again.