"And the shoes?" The bell rang, and Nicholas took Paige's elbow to lead her into the elevator.

Paige looked straight at him, challenging. "I bought them. I figured I deserved something new."

Nicholas was sometimes surprised by the fury she held in check. When she believed she was right, she would fight to the end to make you see her side, continuing emphatically even after she had proof that she was wrong.

When the elevator touched ground level, Nicholas waited for Paige to step out first, as he'd been taught in eighth grade. But when she didn't, he turned to face her, and he saw again the expression she often had when looking at Nicholas. It was as if he filled up her entire world; as if there was nothing he could do wrong. "What is it?" Nicholas said, taking her hand.

Paige shook her head. "It's just you." She took two steps and then looked back at him, smiling. "If you had lived in Chicago, you would have pa.s.sed me on the street."

"No I wouldn't," Nicholas said.

Paige laughed. "You're absolutely right. You wouldn't have been caught dead dead on Taylor Street." on Taylor Street."

Nicholas couldn't convince Paige that it didn't matter to him where she had come from, where she was working, whether she had a diploma. The one important thing was where she was going, and Nicholas was planning to make sure that she would go there with him. It was one of the reasons he'd told her to dress to the nines and had booked a reservation at the Empress in the Hyatt Regency on the river. They'd head up to the Spinnaker afterward, the revolving bar, and then he'd take her home and they'd sit beneath the street lights of Porter Square, kissing until their lips were swollen and bruised. Then Nicholas would drive back to his own apartment in Cambridge, and he would lie naked beneath the ceiling fan in the bedroom, lazily tracing circles on the sheets and imagining the silk of Paige's skin underneath his fingers.

"Where are we going?" Paige asked as she slipped into the car.

Nicholas grinned at her. "A surprise," he said.

Paige fastened her seat belt and smoothed the wrinkles out of the black skirt stretched over her lap. "Probably not McDonald's," she said. "They've relaxed the dress code."

The tuxedoed maitre d' at the restaurant bowed to Nicholas and led the way to a tiny corner table that ab.u.t.ted a wall of gla.s.s. The basin of the Charles River was bathed in the fuchsia and orange of sunset. Playing across the surface like skittering b.u.t.terflies were the distant billowed sails of the MIT sailing club. Paige drew in her breath and pressed her palms to the gla.s.s for a second, leaving a neat steamed print when she took them away. "Oh, Nicholas," she said, "this is great."

Nicholas picked up the black matchbook in the crystal ashtray, embossed with Paige's initials in gold lettering. It was one of the reasons he'd chosen the Empress instead of Cafe Budapest or the Ritz-Carlton ; this was one of their touches. Nicholas handed the matches to Paige. "You might want to hang on to these," he said.

Paige smiled. "You know I don't smoke," she said. "Doris doesn't even have a fireplace." She tossed them back into the ashtray, and then she noticed the letters, PMO. Nicholas sat back, watching Paige's eyes darken and grow wide. Then, like a little kid, she glanced around and sneaked to an empty table next to them. She lifted the matchbook out of the ashtray and her face fell, but only for a second. "It's just this one," she said, breathless. "But how do they know?" know?"

As the meal progressed, Nicholas began to question his motive for an elegant dinner. Paige had urged him to order, since she hadn't had any of the dishes before, and he'd done that. The appetizer-a bird's nest filled with chicken and vegetables-had been delicious, but Paige had no more than touched a straw mushroom to her mouth when her lip began to swell like a balloon. She had held ice to it with her napkin, and it subsided a little, but she must have been allergic. Then when the waiter had brought the complimentary palate-cleansing sorbet, frothed in dry ice that spilled over onto your lap like the mist of a Scottish moor, Paige had argued with the man, insisting that since they hadn't ordered it, they shouldn't have to pay. She had watched Nicholas eating throughout the entire meal, refusing to pick up one of the three forks or spoons until he did. More than once Nicholas caught her with her guard down, staring at her dish as if it were another wall to scale in an obstacle course.

When the check came, the waiter brought Paige a long-stemmed rose, and she smiled across the table at Nicholas. She looked exhausted. Nicholas couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it from this angle: to Paige, this had all been work, almost a kind of test. After Nicholas's credit card had been returned, Paige bolted from her chair before he could even pull it out for her. She walked quickly through the path of least resistance toward the door, head down, not looking at the other diners she pa.s.sed.

When she was in the hallway by the elevator, she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Nicholas stood beside her, his hands jammed into his trousers pockets. "I guess a drink upstairs is out of the question," he murmured.

Paige opened her eyes, momentarily confused, as if Nicholas were the last person she'd expected to find beside her. A smile fixed itself on her face. "It was delicious, Nicholas," she said, and Nicholas couldn't help it, he kept staring at the puffy outline of her still-swollen lower lip, which made her look like a 1930s screen siren. She covered her mouth with her hand.

Nicholas grabbed her fingers and pulled them down to her side. "Don't do that," he said. "Don't ever do that." He slipped his suit jacket over her shoulders.

"Do what?"

Nicholas paused for a fraction of a second and then picked up again. "Lie to me."

He expected her to deny it; but Paige turned to him. "It was awful," she admitted. "I know you didn't mean it, Nicholas, but that isn't really my speed."

Nicholas didn't believe it was really his his speed, either, but he'd been doing it for so long he had never really considered anything else. He rode down the fourteen stories in the elevator in silence, holding Paige's hand, thinking about what Taylor Street in Chicago might look like and whether, in fact, he speed, either, but he'd been doing it for so long he had never really considered anything else. He rode down the fourteen stories in the elevator in silence, holding Paige's hand, thinking about what Taylor Street in Chicago might look like and whether, in fact, he wouldn't wouldn't be caught dead on it. be caught dead on it.

It wasn't that he doubted Paige; in spite of his parents' reaction, he knew that they were going to get married. But he wondered how very different two worlds had to be before they kept people apart. His parents had come from opposite sides of the proverbial tracks, but that didn't count, since they'd wanted to swap places anyway. In Nicholas's mind, that sort of equalized them. His mother had married his father to thumb her nose at society, and his father had married his mother to gain entry into a tight circle of wealth that all the new money in the world couldn't buy. He really didn't know how-or if- if-love ever figured into it, and that was the biggest difference between his parents' relationship and the feelings he had for Paige. He loved Paige because she was simple and sweet, because her hair was the color of an Indian summer, and because she could do an impression of Elmer Fudd that was nearly flawless. He loved her because she had made it to Cambridge on less than a hundred dollars, because she knew how to say the Lord's Prayer backward without stopping, because she could draw exactly what he could never quite put into words. With an overwhelming fervor that surprised Nicholas himself, he believed in her ability to land on her feet; in fact, Paige was the closest thing to a religion he'd had in years. He didn't give a d.a.m.n whether or not she could tell a fish knife from a salad fork, if she'd be able to pick a waltz from a polka. That wasn't what marriage was about.

But on the other hand, Nicholas couldn't help but remember that marriage was a man-made thing, a statute created by society itself. Two souls that were meant to be together-and Nicholas wasn't saying that was the case with him; he was too scientific to be so romantic-well, two people like that could just mate for life with no need for a paper certificate. Marriage didn't really seem to be about love; it was about the ability to live live together for a long period of time, and that was something completely different. That was something he just wasn't sure about when it came to him and Paige. together for a long period of time, and that was something completely different. That was something he just wasn't sure about when it came to him and Paige.

He stared at her profile when he pulled up at a red light. Tiny nose, shining eyes, cla.s.sic lips. Suddenly she turned to him, smiling. There had to be a happy medium. "What are you thinking about?" she asked.

"I was thinking," Nicholas said, "that I wish you could show me what Taylor Street is like."

chapter 29

Paige My mother had seven geldings, and with the exception of Donegal, they were named for men she had turned down. "I don't date," she had told me. "Very few men think that the perfect end to an evening of seduction is a ten o'clock check through the stable." Eddy and Andy were chestnuts, Thoroughbreds. Tony was a mixed-breed pony she had saved from starvation. Burt was a quarter horse that was older than dirt, and Jean-Claude and Elmo were three-year-olds that had come from the racetrack and were in the process of being broken.

While she took Jean-Claude or Elmo down to the ring to work on a lunge line, Josh and I mucked the stalls and spread sweet bedding and scrubbed the water buckets. It was hard work, which knotted my back and my calf muscles, but I found that I could rake through an entire stable sometimes without thinking about Nicholas or Max. In fact, almost anything I did in a.s.sociation with the horses took my mind off the family I had left behind, and I began to see what held my mother's fascination.

I was filling the black beveled buckets in Aurora's stall, and as usual she was trying to bite my back every time I turned away. She was the eighth horse my mother owned, the white fairy-tale mare. She had said that she bought her on impulse, because she'd been hoping Prince Charming would come with the deal, but she'd regretted the purchase ever since. Aurora was b.i.t.c.hy and foul-tempered and stubborn to train. "I've done Aurora's water," I called to Josh, who was mucking farther down in the same barn. I liked him-he was a little weird, but he made me smile. He did not eat meat because "somewhere, cows are sacred." He had let me know the second day I was here that he was already halfway down the eightfold path to nirvana.

I picked up the wheelbarrow Josh had filled with manure and went to the dump pile that composted under the hot Carolina sun. I lifted my face and felt the grime collecting on the back of my neck although it was only eight-thirty.

"Paige!" Josh yelled, "Get here quick! And bring a halter!"

I threw the wheelbarrow aside and raced back, grabbing the halter hanging beside Andy's stall. From the far end of the barn I heard Josh's soothing words. "Come closer," he whispered to me, "and walk slow."

When I peeked out the far door, he had Aurora by the mane. "It's customary to lock the stall when you finish," he said, grinning.

"I did!" I insisted, and I worked the little clip, just to prove it. But one of the chain-link spokes had broken, and I realized I had probably fastened the clip over that one, and the door had sprung free. "Sorry," I said, and I took Aurora by the halter. "Maybe you should have just let her go," I said.

"I don't know," Josh said. "I don't owe Lily any favors this month."

We took a break and went to watch my mother lunging Jean-Claude. She stood in the center of the ring, letting the horse buck and gallop in circles around her. This time, he had a saddle on his back, simply to get used to the feeling. "Look at his conformation," she'd said. "He's a born jumper-nice sloping shoulders, short back."

"And," Josh had said, "an a.s.s like a truck."

My mother had patted him on the cheek with the same tenderness she showed her horses. "Just as long as you don't say that about me," she said.

We watched the muscles in my mother's arms cord and bunch as she tugged on the line that Jean-Claude was valiantly trying to shake free. "How long has she been doing this?" I asked.

"Jean-Claude?" Josh said. "He's only been here a month. But Jesus, Donegal's her first horse, and he's a champion, and he's only seven." Josh bent down and pulled a stalk of gra.s.s from the ground and settled it between his front teeth. He began to tell me the story of my mother and Fly By Night Farm.

She had been working as a personal secretary to Harlan Cozackis, a Kentucky millionaire who had made his fortune in corrugated cardboard. He was very involved in the racing circuit and bought a couple of horses who placed well in the Derby and the Preakness. When he got pancreatic cancer, his wife left him for his business partner. He had told Lily she ought to go too; who gave a d.a.m.n if his company was in order, since the co-owner was banging his own wife? But Lily hadn't left. She stopped keeping the books and started to feed Harlan barley soup in bed; she recorded the times he'd taken his painkillers. He tried chemotherapy for a while, and Lily stayed with him the nights after the treatments, holding damp washcloths to his wrinkled chest and mopping up his vomit.

When he started to die, Lily sat for hours at his side, reading him the odds for local horse races and placing bets over the phone. She told him stories of her days as Calamity Jane in the rodeo, and that was probably what had given him the idea. When he died, he did not leave her any money but instead gave her the colt that had been born just a month before, sired by a stallion with bloodlines to Seattle Slew.

Josh said my mother had laughed long and hard over this one: she had a nearly priceless horse and not a red cent to her name. She drove to Carolina, all the way to Farleyville, until she found a stable she wanted to lease. She brought Donegal out here and for a long time he was the only one in the barn, but she paid her rent just the same. Little by little, by giving lessons to people on their own horses and farms, she saved enough money to buy Eddy, and also Tony, and then Aurora and Andy. She bought a horse named Joseph right from the track, like Aurora, and trained him for a year and then sold him for $45,000-three times her buying price. That was when she started to show Donegal, and his prize money began to pay for his blue-blood care: hundred-fifty-dollar plastic shoes, shots every three months, expensive hay with more clover than timothy. "But we still lost ten thousand dollars last year," Josh said.

"You lost ten thousand dollars," ten thousand dollars," I whispered. "You don't even turn a profit? Why does she keep doing this?" I whispered. "You don't even turn a profit? Why does she keep doing this?"

Josh smiled. In the distance, my mother spoke softly to Jean-Claude and then lifted herself into the saddle bound over his back. She held her reins steady until the horse stopped whinnying and tossing from side to side. She lifted her face to the sky and laughed into the wind. "It's her karma," Josh said. "Why else?"

It got easier every day. I would ride for an hour in the morning after we'd turned out the other horses and mucked the stalls. I rode Tony, the gentlest horse my mother owned. Under her careful direction, I improved. My legs stopped feeling like tightly stretched bands. I could second-guess the horse, who had a habit of ducking out to the right of a jump. Even the canter, which at first had seemed so quick and uncontrollable, had settled. Now Tony would take off so neatly I could close my eyes and pretend that I was running on the voice of the wind.

"What do you want to do now?" my mother called from the center of the ring.

I had slowed Tony to a walk. "Let's jump," I said. "I want to try a vertical." I knew now that the fences were called gymnastics; that a straight-across bar was a vertical and an "X" was called a cross-rail. Because Tony was only about fourteen hands, he couldn't jump very high, but he could easily take a two-foot vertical if he was in the mood.

I loved the feeling of a jump. I loved the easy lead up to it, the squeeze of my thighs and calves pressuring the horse's hind end, the remarkable power with which he pushed off the ground. As Tony started to come up, I'd lift myself into the half-seat position, suspended in midair until the horse's back rose up to meet me. "Don't look down-look across the jump," my mother had told me over and over, and I would, seeing the rich berry-twisted brush that edged the stream. It never failed to surprise me that within seconds, we actually touched down on everyday earth.

My mother set up a course of six jumps for me. I patted Tony's neck and gathered up my reins for a canter. My mother shouted corrections at me, but I could barely hear her. We flew around the ring so gracefully I wasn't sure that the horse's legs were striking the ground. Tony took the first jump long, throwing me back in the saddle. He picked up speed, and I knew that I should be sitting back to slow him, but somehow my body wasn't doing what I wanted it to. As he landed the next jump, he raced around the corner of the ring. He leaned strangely to one side, and I fell off.

When I opened my eyes, Tony was gnawing on the gra.s.s along the edge of the ring and my mother was standing above me. "It happens to everyone," she said, reaching out her hand to help me up. "What do you think you did wrong?"

I stood and dusted off the britches I'd borrowed from her. "Besides the fact that he was running a hundred miles an hour?"

My mother smiled. "Yeah, it was a little faster than a usual canter," she said.

I rubbed my hand over the back of my neck and readjusted the black velvet helmet. "He was off center," I said. "I knew I was going to fall off before it happened."

My mother pulled Tony back by the reins and held him while I mounted again. "Good girl," she said. "That's because when you come across a diagonal, you've changed your direction. When you canter, a horse should have the inside lead, right?" I nodded; I remembered this lesson well because it had taken me forever to figure it out: when a horse cantered, or galloped, for that matter, the leg on the innermost side of the ring should be the first to fall; it kept them balanced. "When you change your direction, the horse needs to switch leads. Tony won't do it naturally-he's too dumb for that; he'll just run around off kilter, wearing himself out until he trips or throws you off. You've got to tell him, really, that you want him to try a new trick in his repertoire. You break him down to a trot and then pick up the canter again-it's called a simple change of lead."

I shook my head. "I can't remember all this," I said.

"Yes you can," my mother insisted. She clucked Tony into a trot. "Do a figure eight," she said, "and don't stop. He's not going to do what you want him to unless you guide him into it. Keep going across your diagonals and do your simple changes."

By the time we turned down the first diagonal, I had Tony moving quietly toward the middle of the jump. I looked at his hooves, and Tony was on the same lead he'd been on before the jump, only now, because we'd changed direction, it was his outside leg. I pulled back on the reins until he broke his stride, and then I turned his head toward the woods and kicked him into a canter again. "Good," my mother yelled, and I squeezed Tony over the next line of jumps. I did the same pattern over and over until I thought I was breathing harder than Tony, and I slowed him to a walk without my mother's command.

I leaned over Tony's neck, sighing into his coa.r.s.e mane. I knew about running fast, and knowing you were off balance, and not understanding how to fix yourself. "You don't see how lucky you have it," I said. I thought about how easy it would be to take an unfamiliar course if I had someone pushing me in the right direction; a gentle, knowing pressure that let me break down the pace until I was ready to run again.

"When do I get to ride Donegal?" I asked, as we led him to the field where my mother liked to ride him. His mane whipped from left to right as he strained against the leather lead to his halter.

"You could sit him right now," my mother said, "but you wouldn't be riding him; he'd be riding you." She handed me the reins while she adjusted the chin strap of her riding helmet. "He's a phenomenal horse, he'll take any jump you put in front of him and automatically change his leads, but he'd just be making you look good. If you're learning to ride, you should do it on someone like Tony, a workhorse with an att.i.tude."

I saw my mother swing herself into the saddle and take off at a trot; then I sat down on the gra.s.s and watched her ride. I opened the pad I'd brought and took out a stick of charcoal. I tried to draw the spirit that seemed to run straight from my mother's spine through the flanks and powerful hind legs of Donegal. She didn't even have to touch the horse; it seemed that she communicated her changes and transitions by willing them into Donegal's mind.

I drew the crimped jet mane and the arch of the horse's neck, the steam rising from his sides and the rhythm of his labored breathing. I sketched the rippled muscles of Donegal's legs, from the line of the blue shin and ankle boots to the raw force that throbbed in check beneath the sheen of his haunches. My mother leaned low over his neck, whispering words I could not hear. Her shirt flew out behind her, and she moved faster than light.

When I drew her, she seemed to come right out of the horse, and it was impossible really to tell where he ended and she began. Her thighs were wrapped tight around Donegal's flanks, and his legs seemed to move across the page. I drew them over and over on the same piece of paper. I was working so furiously that I never noticed my mother getting off Donegal, tying him up to the fence, and coming to sit beside me.

She peered over my shoulder and stared at her image. I had drawn her repeatedly, but the final effect was that of motion: her head and Donegal's were bent low at several different angles and positions, all rooted to the same flying body. It seemed mythical and sensual. It was as if my mother and Donegal had started off several times but couldn't decide where they wanted to go.

"You're amazing," my mother said, resting her hand on my shoulder.

I shrugged. "I'm okay," I said. "I could be better."

My mother touched her fingertips to the edge of the paper. "Can I have it?" she asked, and before I handed it over I peered into the hollows and shadows of the picture, trying to see what else I might have revealed. But this time, in spite of all the secrets that lay between us, there was absolutely nothing.

"Sure," I said. "Consider it yours."

Dear Max, Enclosed is a sketch of one of the horses here. Her name is Aurora, and she looks like the one in your picture book of Snow White, the one you always tried to eat when I read it to you. Oh, I suppose you don't know-"here" is your grandmother's place. It's a farm in North Carolina, and it's very green and very beautiful. When you are older one day maybe you'll come down here and learn how to ride.

I think of you quite a lot-I wonder if you are sitting up yet and if you have your bottom teeth. I wonder if you'll recognize me when you see me. I wish I could explain why I left the way I did, but I am not sure I could put it into words. Just keep believing me when I say I'm coming back.

I don't know when yet.

I love you.

Do me a favor, will you? Tell your daddy I love him.

Mom At the end of August I went with my mother to an AHSA "A" list horse show in Culpeper, Virginia. We packed Donegal into the trailer and drove for six hours. I helped my mother lead him into the makeshift stalls under the blue-and-white tent. That night, we paid to practice on the four-foot jumps, which Donegal took easily after being cooped up for so long. My mother tacked him down and gave him a warm bath. "We'll see you tomorrow, Don," she said, "and I'm planning on going home with a champion."

The next day I watched, wide-eyed, as judging went on in three rings at once. Men and women competed together, one of the few sports where they were equal. My mother's cla.s.s was Four Foot Working Hunter, the highest show cla.s.s. She seemed to know everyone there. "I'm going to change," she said, and when she returned, she was wearing tan britches, tall polished boots, a high-necked white blouse, and a blue wool blazer. She had jammed her hair into fifteen little barrettes all around her head, and she asked me to hold a mirror while she stuffed her helmet on over them. "Points off," she told me, "if any hair is sticking out."

There were twenty-one horses in her cla.s.s, the last event of the day. She was the third rider up. While Donegal pranced around the warm-up ring, I watched from the bleachers, keeping an eye on the man jumping the largest stallion I'd ever seen, over fences that were nearly as tall as me. My mother's number was forty-six, tied on her back on a crinkled piece of yellowed card. She smiled at the man who had finished the course, pa.s.sing him on her way in.

The judge sat off to the side. I tried to make out what he was writing, but it was impossible at this distance. Instead I concentrated on my mother. It took only seconds. I watched Donegal come down the final line on the outside of the ring. As he reared up, his front legs were tight, his knees were high. He didn't take the jump long or chip it; it was right in stride. I saw my mother sit back, holding Donegal slow until the next jump rose in front of them, and then she pulled into her half-seat, chin high, eyes burning straight ahead. It was only when they finished the course that I realized I had been holding my breath.

The woman sitting beside me had on a copper-colored polka-dotted dress and a wide-brimmed white straw hat, as if she'd been expecting Ascot. She held a program, and on the back she was writing the numbers of the riders she believed would win. "I don't know," she murmured to herself. "I think the first man was much better."

I turned to her, angry. "You've got to be joking," I said. "His horse took every jump long." The woman sniffed and tapped her pencil against her chin. "I'll give you five dollars if forty-six doesn't beat that guy," I said, pulling a fold of cash from my back pocket.

The woman stared at me, and for a moment I wondered if this was illegal, but then a smile spread across her onion features and she held out a gloved hand. "You're on," she said.

n.o.body else in the cla.s.s was as good as my mother on Donegal. Several of the horses ducked out at the jumps, or dumped their riders and were disqualified. When the results were announced, the blue ribbon went to number forty-six. I stood up in the bleachers and cheered, and my mother twisted her head around to look at me. She jogged the horse back into the ring so Donegal could be judged sound, then fixed her blue ribbon on the loop of Donegal's bridle. The woman beside me sniffed loudly and held out a crisp five-dollar bill. "One thirty-one was better," she insisted.

I took the money from her palm. "Maybe," I said, "but forty-six is my mother."

At my mother's suggestion, we celebrated the end of summer by camping out in the backyard. I didn't think I would like it. I figured the ground would be lumpy and I'd be worried about ants crawling up my neck and into my ears. But my mother found two old sleeping bags the owners of Pegasus had used in Alaska, and we stretched out on them in the field where my mother rode Donegal. We watched for falling stars.

It had been unbearably hot in August, and I had become used to seeing blisters on the backs of my hands and my neck-the parts that were exposed to sun all the time. "You're a country girl, Paige," my mother said, reaching her arms up behind her head. "You wouldn't have lasted this long if you weren't."

There were things to be said about North Carolina. It was nice to see the sinking sun cool itself against the face of a mountain instead of the domes of Harvard; there was no pavement to breathe beneath your feet. But sometimes I felt so secluded that I stopped to listen, to make sure I could hear my pulse over the singing black flies and the rumble of hoofbeats.

My mother rolled toward me, propping herself on an elbow. "Tell me about Patrick," she said.

I looked away. I could tell her what my father had looked like or that he hadn't wanted me to search for her, but either one would hurt. "He's still building pipe dreams in the bas.e.m.e.nt," I said. "A couple have actually sold." My mother held her breath, waiting. "His hair is gray now, but he hasn't really lost any of it."

"It's still there, isn't it? That look in his eyes?"

I knew what she meant: it was this glow that came over my father when he saw a masterpiece even though he was looking at a concoction of spit and glue. "It's still there," I said, and my mother smiled.

"I think that's what made me fall for him," she said, "that and the way he promised to show me Ireland." She rolled onto her back and closed her eyes. "And what does he think of the fine Dr. Prescott?"

"He's never met him," I blurted, cursing myself for making such a stupid mistake. I decided to tell her a half-truth. "I've just barely kept in touch with Dad. I ran away from Chicago when I graduated from high school."

My mother frowned. "That doesn't sound like Patrick. Patrick only wanted you to go to college. You were going to be the first Irish Catholic woman President."

"It wasn't college," I told her. "I was planning on going to the Rhode Island School of Design, but something else came up." I held my breath, but she did not pressure me. "Mom," I said, eager to change the subject, "what about that rodeo guy?"

She laughed. "That rodeo guy was Wolliston Waters, and we ran around together with the money we stole from the Wild West show. I slept with him a couple of times, but only to remember what it was like to feel another person next to me. It wasn't love, you know; it was s.e.x. You've probably seen the difference." I turned away, and my mother touched my shoulder. "Oh, come on, now. There had to be a high school guy who broke your heart."