Wild Orchids Read online

  Having read all of Ford’s books, I figured I knew all about him, but he surprised me with the story about why his father had been sent to jail. Ford told me with his usual angst, with that poor-little-me face he always put on when he talked about his family, but I ignored it. I couldn’t help but see Ford’s father as a man who epitomized every virtue of a true hero.

  While Ford told the story, my mind whirled. I’m sure that Toodles—I hated the name but it fit him-—knew Ford’s mother didn’t love him, but, in spite of that, he’d married her. Then he’d done everything he could to support his wife and give his child a good start in life. That a criminal act was the basis of that start didn’t matter. Toodles had tried to do what was right. He’d risked everything for his wife, for his unborn child—and for his slimy brothers who’d wanted to use Toodles to save their own worthless hides.

  I didn’t agree with what Ford’s mother did when she turned her son over to the guilty uncles, but I certainly understood why she’d done it.

  In spite of knowing some of what was in that family, I was unprepared for Toodles’s breakdown. First of all, I couldn’t understand what was being said. Toodles said something I didn’t understand, then Ford said he wanted to learn how to play cat’s cradle, and the next second all hell broke loose. Toodles was crying—howling really—so loud that I had to shout over him. I think he was saying something important, but between the crying and his face being buried in Ford’s beer belly, I couldn’t make out his exact words.

  But I could see that whatever he was saying was making Ford cry, too. Under my breath, I said, “Get a mop, there’s two of them,” but Noble heard me and laughed. I tried to pull Toodles off Ford, but he hung on like a koala to a eucalyptus tree.

  Noble finally put both his arms around Toodles’s barrel chest and pulled him away. The scene had made everyone at the table weepy—except for Noble. He was the only one who seemed to think that what had just happened was “normal.” If that was normal, then Ford’s family was weirder than he’d made them out to be in his books. Was that possible?

  Finally, Noble suggested that Ford tell a story and I must say that the idea intrigued me. Could Ford make up stories? He seemed only able to write roman à clefs about his bizarre family.

  Taking his audience into consideration—namely, a nine-year-old and an adult child—Ford started telling about two little boys and the jams they got themselves into. From the way Noble was quietly laughing into his plate, I could see that Ford was keeping to his pattern and telling of the true misadventures of himself and his cousin.

  I listened with half an ear because I was thinking about something that had happened earlier. That afternoon Noble had climbed in a window of my studio and removed the portfolio containing my photos of Tessa—the pictures I was saving to show Russell. It amazed me that, after having trespassed, Noble brought the photos into the garden and showed them to everyone. As though he had the right to intrude on a person’s private property!

  I was seething at his invasion and let him know it. What I wanted to say was that I had a great deal of influence with Ford and if I said something bad, there was a strong possibility that Ford wouldn’t let Noble stay. But since Ford was right there (pouting in a hammock, but there) I didn’t say any of this for fear it might backfire.

  I did let Noble know of my extreme displeasure by giving him such a hard look I expected his eyebrows to burst into flame. However, I had to let up pretty quickly, because, after all, he was my employer’s cousin, so I pretended I was interested in his praise. I was quite reserved, though, about what he was saying so he’d know to never again invade my privacy. I listened to what he had to say for a minute or two, then I took the photos to Ford. I wanted to let Noble know that Ford was the master of the household. Besides, now that my pictures had been exposed, I wanted to know what Ford thought of them.

  Ford looked at the pictures slowly, one by one, but he didn’t say a word. Nothing. For somebody who could maneuver words as he could, his silence was hurtful. I was at the point where I wanted to grab my pictures away from him when he did the oddest thing.

  He kissed me.

  He leaned over in that hammock—and that he didn’t tip it over showed he’d spent a lot of time in one—and planted his lips on mine.

  I wanted to say, “Ooooh,” in that Valley Girl way of disgust, but, uh, well, it was, well, actually, the kiss to end all kisses. It was a real kiss. With feeling. Emotion.

  At first it was as though Ford was saying that he thought my photos were really, really great. But, then, something happened a few seconds into the kiss and I began to see little stars. Okay, maybe they weren’t little star-shaped stars, but they were tiny multicolored dots of light. It was like when your sleep-deadened leg begins to wake up and you feel hundreds of thousands of tiny points of pain. During my kiss with Ford, I felt those little dots—not of pain, nosirree bob, no pain at all—but they were dots of brilliant color. I saw them behind my closed eyelids as well as felt them.

  After a while, Ford broke away. He looked a little startled, but he didn’t seem to have felt anything like what I had, so I played it cool. However, I couldn’t seem to take my eyes off Ford and I took a tiny step toward him. I don’t know what would have happened if I hadn’t slipped on something. Dazed, I looked down at the ground. Scattered on the grass were about a hundred or so little black rings of olives. Obviously, Ford had picked them off the miniature quiches Noble had made—enough to feed twenty-eight men, the number in his cell block, he’d told me. But I didn’t understand. The night of my second vision, Ford and I had picked up pizzas and he’d asked for triple black olives, saying that he loved them. Knowing that, I’d bought lots of them, and told Noble to put the olives on the quiches with a heavy hand. So why had Ford picked them off?

  I didn’t ask because Noble said he was hungry and of course that meant me. I, the literary assistant had to, yet again, go to the kitchen.

  After dinner, I got to continue being the high prestige assistant of a famous writer by making beds for everyone. Ford hadn’t bothered himself to make a decision about where everyone was to sleep and, knowing him, he hadn’t even thought about it, so it was left to me. Yet another crucial, executive decision I had to make. When I found out there weren’t enough sheets in the house to make up the beds and I had to go shopping at eight P.M., and when Toodles and Tessa wanted to go with me so I knew a one hour job was going to turn into three, I started planning how big my raise was going to be.

  I finally got us back to the house at ten-thirty, Toodles and Tessa loaded down with fourteen cartons of ice cream because they couldn’t bear to leave any flavor behind, and I trudged up the stairs to make beds.

  Noble and Ford had finally broken up from whatever they were doing in his office—playing with the train set?—and Noble helped me with the beds. I was feeling pretty overwhelmed by it all, but Noble made me laugh. He saw that I’d sort of taken my annoyance out on the credit card Ford had given me. And, well, maybe I’d had a little fun with Toodles and Tessa as we’d filled four shopping carts full of bed and bath accessories. As Noble carried everything upstairs, he told me that building contractors couldn’t pack as much in the back of a pickup as I had. It was silly of me, but the way he said it made me feel as though I’d been complimented—which I didn’t like. If I started thinking like one of the Newcombes, I was going to leave town immediately.

  He got the electric drill I’d bought (in a case, complete with bits) and put up curtain rods while I used the new iron (deluxe, most expensive one they had) to press the curtains before he hung them. I must say that when we finished, Toodles’s room looked great. I’d bought him bug-printed sheets, curtains, rugs, and bath accessories. Well, actually, he and Tessa had chosen them, and Ford had paid for them—was going to pay for them—but I’d okayed it all. The bug fabric was relieved by a blue and green plaid comforter, and the curtains were white sheers with little pockets. They came with six embroidered bugs to slip into the pockets, and