“He just gets up and starts roaming in the middle of the night?” Fox asked. “Has he seen a doctor?”
“He won’t go. He says there’s nothing wrong with him. He used to walk in his sleep when he was a boy, and he says there’s nothing harmful in it, but—I don’t know. There’s more to it than that. Juan won’t talk to me about it.”
She wished he would offer to talk to Juan himself. But she couldn’t ask Fox; the code of etiquette among men was different than that among women friends. If she poured out her fears about Juan to Johnny Foxxe, was she supporting her husband or betraying him?
“Have you tried locking the door?” Fox asked her.
“What good would it do? He’s awake when he leaves. I can’t keep him locked inside the house. He’s my husband, not one of my cats.”
“He could get hurt out there at night.”
“I know. But how can I stop him?”
“Look, Dora, there’s some fool with a gun out there, ignoring all the No Hunting signs. Tomás and I have both seen him roaming around, down there by the creek. You tell Juan he’d best be more careful. The idiot will think he’s a deer.”
Dora swallowed. “I will. I’ll tell him that.”
They sat in uncomfortable silence then until the kettle whistled loudly and Fox rose to make the tea.
He measured sticks of Mormon tea into the pot, filled it with hot water, and said in a conversational tone, “That woman has come. Did you know that? The one who’ll live in Cooper’s house. Marguerita Black.”
“The writer?” asked Dora with surprise.
“Yeah, I reckon she must be a writer. She’s supposed to be writing a book on Cooper. You heard of her?”
“Darn right I have. And so have you, you know. Remember I loaned you The Maid on the Shore? That book of essays about the California coast?”
“Oh yeah? Didn’t Annie Dillard write that? That was Marguerita Black? No wonder the name sounded familiar. I thought I must have heard it from Cooper.”
Dora shook her head, grateful for the change of subject from Juan. “I would have remembered if Cooper had ever talked about Maguerita Black. I’ve been reading her work since I was in college. She used to publish these travelogue kind of pieces in Harper’s and The New Yorker: very urban, cosmopolitan stuff, full of people who were always dashing off between London and Rome and Amsterdam, you know what I mean? I ate it up. I used to fantasize about living that kind of life someday. But the sad truth, Johnny,” she said with a wry smile, “is that now I want my own house around me, a comfy chair, a cup of tea and a good travel book instead.”
“Are we talking about the same writer? The Maid on the Shore is—”
“Quieter. More down to earth. It surprised me when it came out … but I think I like it the best of all. What a kick that she’ll be living next door, huh? Have you met her? What’s she like?”
“Like you said,” he replied carefully. “Urban, cosmopolitan. Like someone who wrote for The New Yorker, not like someone who wrote The Maid on the Shore.”
“Hmmm. That’s interesting,” she said. “Now wait ’til I tell Juan.” But at the mention of Juan’s name the animation drained from Dora’s pale face. She cast a wary look toward her husband where he sat by the fire, sleeping soundly. His own face was clear and untroubled, his cheeks flushed from the heat of the flames.
She rose, her tea untouched. “I ought to go get Juan into bed.”
“You need some sleep yourself,” Fox pointed out, spilling cats from his lap as he stood. He cooled his tea with tap water, and then drained it in three long gulps.
“I wish.” Dora gave him a weary smile and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.
She stood at the door as Fox left the house and watched him amble down the road. A shadow darted at his heels. The small coyote was still out there, its fur matted, its ribs distinct. She watched it weave its way through the trees—almost as if it were following the man but dared not approach too close to him. She was glad the cats were safe inside the house; they’d make a good breakfast for a hungry coyote, and that one looked like it could use a square meal. A whole coyote pack was singing in the hills; there seemed to be a lot of them around. Today she’d keep the cats locked in and send Bandido out to mark their turf.
The sun was rising above the mountains now, bringing its heat back to the canyon. She still had time for a bath and some breakfast before she headed into town and opened up the gallery again. Juan was sleeping so peacefully that she wouldn’t try to move him after all. She envied him that untroubled sleep. For her, it was going to be another long day. She picked up her cup of tea and went to run the bathwater with four cats trailing along behind. As she did so, she realized she’d never asked Fox what he’d been doing in the mountains himself, up before the crack of dawn. Like Juan that night, six months ago. She frowned.
No, she wasn’t going to think about that. She was going to put one foot in front of her at a time, take a bath, get dressed, get into her truck, and drive off this mountain into town. When she got back home, if she wasn’t too tired, she’d try to talk to Juan again. Somehow, it was going to be all right. It had to be, that was all.
• • •
She sat in the shadows
