Part 21 (1/2)

”Can she dance?”

”No, but she can sing.”

”Of course,” Grace said. ”Please bring her along.” The couple said good-bye and then strolled off holding hands.

With some amus.e.m.e.nt, Peter settled into his chair and thought about the irony of meeting Byron Holmes here. It wasn't all that unusual, since Camden was where so many men like Byron spent their summers. Yet, of all the people in the world, he'd never guessed he'd shake hands with the man whose surname was synonymous with the world's first tabulating machines. Small world, Peter thought. No, he corrected himself, I'm from the small world, and he's from the big world. But, as he'd just learned, it didn't seem to matter how big or small your baby.

When it's yours, it's yours. And this man understood that.

The horses walked side by side, each carrying a rider through the secluded wooded path.

”I don't believe you, that the only love you have ever felt has been for horses. Nonsense,” Greta said.

”It is true,” said Jean-Pierre, crossing his heart with his finger.

”Ridiculous.”

”Greta, I tell no lie when I say that I have been in love only with horses. Nothing has ever come between us,” he said, patting his beast's neck affectionately.

”Frenchmen,” she said with a dismissing wave of her gloved hand.

”Such talkers.” Had he noticed? She took a breath, reminding herself to keep her left hand on the saddle.

And, she wondered, had he noticed her color when he'd crossed his heart? Unless he was psychic, she knew that he could not see what was going on inside her when he spoke of things such as his country and horses.

”Your husband, he is doing something very important today, no?”

”Yes. It's important. To him. Some new computer.”

”Indeed. I read about it in the paper. You must be very proud, Greta. Yes?”

”Yes, of course. He's done very well since he's been in control.

Very busy,” she said. She wished this topic to go no further. She let herself look at him, into his eyes.

”Yes,” Jean-Pierre replied with a nod that said, without words, that he understood. It was the same look he had given her when they'd first met after they had shaken hands, when his arm had been in a sling.

They continued along in silence at a trot, and Greta renewed their conversation with enthusiasm. ”Jean-Pierre, tell me more about your country. Is the French countryside similar to Northern California, as everyone here seems to think?”

”Ah, it is beautiful,” Jean-Pierre said. ”All year is green out in the countryside where I was born. And clean when you inhale, and pretty, all fresh and tingling in your nose, in your heart.

You ride on and on and see no one for very long stretches of time. Here and there, children are playing or doing ch.o.r.es, you see a woman carrying a basket, a man with an ax. They wave when they see you.” Smiling, he waved to her as if to ill.u.s.trate, but all at once his expression changed into a grimace, as though he were suddenly in great pain.

”What is it?” Greta asked.

”This d.a.m.ned shoulder. If I cannot even lift it to wave, how will I ever hold a mallet again?”

”Isn't there anything you can do about it?”

”Oh, sure. There are procedures. Surgery.”