Nevertheless, House was uneasy as they crossed the street and walked up the driveway. Following Carolyn up the back steps, he got to admiring the view ahead of him and lost track of what she was saying. As they washed the horse hair from their hands and arms at the kitchen sink, he ordered himself to ignore the fact that they were standing hip to hip, and that her hands, while visibly older, were still as pretty as he remembered.
He was suddenly very conscious of their isolation. In previous visits, with Angie as a buffer, or outside with the horses, it was possible to believe that they were just old college buddies. Now, alone together, with Cassandra Wilson's A Little Warm Death playing on the stereo and certain memories of their younger years percolating up through his brain, he was finding it harder to keep his mind in the Friend Zone.
Idiot Dog was no help as a distraction. After an initial rousing welcome, she concluded that House was old news and settled onto a rug in the middle of the room, loudly performing an act of personal hygiene.
If the situation troubled Carolyn, she didn't show it. She moved easily from refrigerator to cupboard to breadbox, assembling a salad and sandwiches and talking on and on about horses. There seemed to be more to know about owning and riding a horse than there was to practicing modern medicine, with more areas of specialization and a whole field known as animal behavior. Carolyn had plenty to say on the subject, using individual horses she had known to illustrate.
"Don't you think it's kind of dangerous?" he ventured, after she described a fall from a fractious school horse that had broken her collarbone.
"Of course it's dangerous," Carolyn said impatiently. "But you know what? Every morning I strap myself into a machine that weighs a ton and a half, and go hurtling down the highway at 60 miles in hour with hundreds of other ton-and-a-half machines, many of them driven by people who are drinking coffee or yelling at the kids or making phone calls or doing their make-up, and no one ever says 'Don't you think that's kind of dangerous?' I do it twice a day, five days a week, and I don't even enjoy it! If I get killed on horseback, at least I'll go out doing something I love.
"Anyway," she added, "you should talk, out there on a two-wheeled rice rocket, with all those dimwits in SUVs text messaging their friends and not even seeing you until you're flying over their hood!"
"I drive defensively," said House, defensively.
Carolyn rolled her eyes. "Glad to hear it."
They took their food out onto the porch to eat. The sun was setting, its last rays casting a golden sheen over the farm across the road and the horses in their paddocks. Overhead in the trees, the birds were getting in some last bits of gossip before settling down for the night.
Carolyn propped her feet on the porch rail and sighed. "I love this place," she said. "I love my life. When I think about all the stupid things I thought I needed in my 20s and 30s, all the tears and tantrums over what I couldn't have, I can't believe how lucky I am to reach a time when I can look around and honestly say, 'I want what I have. I have what I want'."
"You don't think about meeting someone? Getting married again?"
"I have met someone," she said casually. "A couple of someones, since the divorce. They were great while they lasted. Then it was great to be on my own again. Never say never, but marriage isn't a priority right now. What about you? How are things with that pretty doctor you're seeing?"
"We broke up."
"I'm sorry," said Carolyn, really meaning it.
"Don't be. It was inevitable." House stared across the road. "We weren't very compatible. Anyway, I'm not programmed for success in relationships." He grimaced, hating the self-pity implied in those last words.
"I wouldn't say that at all," Carolyn said firmly. "What you are, is very reluctant to do anything you think you won't immediately be good at. And you have incredibly high standards for what constitutes 'good'."
"What do you mean?"
"If you didn't get a score or an assist at lacrosse, you acted like your team lost, even if they won. If we bet on something and your guess was closest but not exactly right, you said it didn't count. If you got a B-plus in a course you actually worked hard in, you were miserable for days. You give yourself hell over little mistakes that other people make without thinking twice. You can't keep that kind of score on yourself when you're dealing with people. There's too much room for error to go beating yourself up after every little mistake."
House gave a short laugh. "I've made some big mistakes, too, you know."
Carolyn shrugged. "Who hasn't? Acknowledge the mistake, make amends, move on. But you don't; you brood and pick your mistakes apart and tell yourself what a fool you are. Greg, look at me…"
He turned to her, somber.
"You're not a fool," she said gently. "You're not a failure. Everyone has flaws, and yours aren't fatal. Let yourself off the hook, okay?"
She lay a hand on his thigh and noticed that he tightened up. "Did that hurt?" she asked, withdrawing it.
"No, it—" He forced a laugh. "It's not my best side. Kind of ugly."
Carolyn deliberately traced its outline with her fingertips. "There you go. It's a scar, Greg. That's all." Her tone became meditative. "We're so hung up on perfection in this culture. All of our models are airbrushed and PhotoShopped till they're flawless. No bumps, no wrinkles, no cellulite. Did you know that a show dog or show horse is not supposed to be penalized for 'honorable' scars earned while hunting? They used to mean it. No one would dare put a blemished animal in a show ring today. They all look like they just came out of the wrapper. Most of them have never even seen a hunting field, never been allowed to run and jump and use themselves the way they were meant to be used."
The sun had set; the porch was dark.
"A scar is like a chapter of your story," Carolyn continued. "Maybe it was a painful chapter; maybe you didn't like the way it ended; but you'll drive yourself crazy if you keep trying to go back and rewrite it. All you can do is move on, and write a new chapter."
In the darkness, House reached forward to touch the tip of her collarbone near the hollow of her throat. He traced it toward her shoulder and found the knot where the bone had broken and reset itself. Carolyn gazed at him calmly, her breathing slow and quiet. They kissed.
"Let's go inside," she said.
-0-
Sometime around midnight Carolyn started to laugh.
"No private jokes," said House.
"I'm afraid you'll take it wrong," she giggled.
"Try me."
"The thought crossed my mind: It really does come back to you, just like riding a bicycle."
"You're comparing me to a Tour de France racer, I hope."
"A mountain bike," she smirked. "Good for gettin' dirty with."
House laughed, then asked, seriously, "Is this a good idea?"
Carolyn flopped onto her pillow in mock despair. "Oh, no, don't! Don't start analyzing this to death!"
"But what is it?" he persisted.
She pulled the pillow over her head and said something muffled.
"What?" He pulled the pillow away.
"It is what it is," she said.
"Come on, Carolyn, you're not soft in the head. This means something. Are we trying to recapture our youth? Going back to fix a mistake? Just getting our rocks off? What?"
Carolyn propped herself on one elbow and regarded him candidly. "I don't know," she admitted. "Maybe all of the above. Maybe we're just glad to see each other again. To me it feels like a chance to be happy for awhile. Can you let it go at that?"
"I don't know," House said honestly. "I don't have a lot of experience with being happy."
"In my experience, happiness is a lot easier to achieve when you're not always fighting for control of the universe," said Carolyn. "Can you at least try to take life as it comes, in this one little area, just for awhile?"
House thought it over. "I'll give it a shot," he said.
"That's all I ask." Carolyn yawned. She kissed him and turned out the light. A moment later, he could tell by her breathing that she was asleep. House lay listening to her, expecting to be awake for hours. Instead, he fell asleep, too. And if he had any dreams, they were peaceful and easily forgotten.
-0-
House awoke the next morning weirdly conscious of where he was and why. He could feel the press of a warm body against his back, and soft breathing against his neck. He froze, caught somewhere between delight and panic, and tried to adjust his expression to something suitable. Then he rolled over and looked deep into the peeled-grape-colored eyes of Idiot Dog, who was lying with her head on Carolyn's pillow. Idiot Dog promptly sneezed, spraying him full in the face.
Carolyn entered, dressed in Batman pajama bottoms and an old blue sweater and carrying two coffee mugs. "Greta! Get out of there!"
Idiot Dog sprang to her feet, planting a paw in a very tender part of House's anatomy, and launched herself off the bed. Carolyn set the mugs on the bedside table and shooed the dog out of the room, closing the door behind her.
"I'm sorry," she said, sitting on the edge of the bed and touching his hand. "She's not supposed to get on the beds, but Angie spoiled her, and she sneaks in wherever she can find a warm body."
He took her hand and kissed the palm. She leaned in for a real kiss. "Good morning," she said shyly.
"Do you feel weird, too?" he asked.
"Weird doesn't begin to describe it." She sat back and took him in. "Here you are; and I turned on the radio in the kitchen and they were playing Bruce Springsteen, Born to Run. I feel like I'm in a time warp."
"Both a little older, both a little bolder. Is that coffee for me?"
She handed it to him. "There's plenty more where this came from. But you'll have to get up to get it."
House sat up and ran a mental body scan. "I feel pretty good," he boasted. "Isn't horseback riding supposed to hurt the next day?"
"The day after the next day," Carolyn corrected him. "Tomorrow, you'll curse my memory."
The New York Times was already on the kitchen table when he emerged, fully dressed. House helped himself to more coffee and read the Week in Review section while Carolyn skimmed the magazine. They argued comfortably over whether the U.S. should pull out of Iraq immediately or had a moral obligation to stay until the new government was stable. They placed bets on whether the Secretary of Defense would be cleaning out his office within the month. They debated the merits of stem cell research—breakthrough science or therapeutic dead end? House was inclined to be pessimistic; Carolyn saw it as a miracle in the making.
"You sound like Wilson," he told her, amused.
"Dr. Wilson is a hoot!" she laughed, then asked, too casually, "Does he drink a lot—of coffee, I mean?"
"We all drink a lot of coffee," said House. "As soon as we figure out how to take it IV, we'll do that instead. Why?"
"Nothing. I noticed his hands trembled a little, that's all."
House frowned. "I didn't notice."
"They were shaking when he was holding the menu. He saw me looking and put it on the table to read."
"He might've overdone the Fair Trade Dark Roast. He doesn't drink alcohol to excess, if that's what you're really getting at."
Carolyn sighed. "Am I being an over-protective mother again?"
"Yes," said House. "Although to be fair, people don't worry about that kind of thing nearly as much as they should."
The phone rang, and Carolyn answered it. "Oh, hi, sweetie, how are you feeling today? Oh, no…well, they said you probably would…that bad? Well, honey, I'll be in as soon as I can, but…have you talked to a nurse? Okay, okay…oh, Angie, that'll just make you feel sicker…well, all right, but don't say I didn't warn you…Yes, as soon as I can…I have to take a shower first. In an hour. All right. Talk to a nurse. Will you do that? Okay. Goodbye, sweetie, I love you."
Carolyn hung up and made a face. "She's feeling awful, poor kid. She wants me to bring her Yoo-Hoo." She shuddered. "Strawberry Yoo-Hoo."
"Get it for her," advised House. "One sniff after chemo, and she'll never ask for it again."
Carolyn sighed and ran a hand through her hair. "I'd better get going."
"Should I come, too?"
"Better not. Angie hates to have people around when she's feeling bad. She must be really sick to want me there, but you know how it is; no matter how old you get, sometimes you just want your mommy." She started toward the bathroom, but House stretched out a long arm and intercepted her, drawing her to his side.
"Are you going to tell her about this?" he asked, his heartrate increasing a little.
"What is this?" Carolyn teased, but gently.
"It is what it is," he said. "We're taking it as it comes. Right? But it is something."
"It certainly is," she said, kissing his forehead. "Yes, I will talk to Angie. She'll figure it out soon enough anyway. I've never been able to hide much from her."
Suddenly energized, House stood. "I'm going to head home," he said. "See you later? We could order in Thai food at my place, if you don't mind abject squalor."
"That would be nice," she smiled. "It'll have to be an early evening, though; I'll have to come home and feed the dog, and I've got an 8 o'clock meeting in the morning."
"We can work with that," House said, somewhat inanely, as he put his arms around her. They embraced wordlessly, swaying a little, and kissed. He left, light and cocky, almost swinging his cane as he walked to his bike and got on. The morning was overcast, threatening rain, but the air was still warm and his tires were good on wet pavement. He felt confident he could weather any storm that might come his way.
-0-
As the day wore on, his good mood was interrupted by intermittent stabs of doubt and anxiety. One hit while he listened to his voice mail. There was a message from his mother, sounding mildly reproachful; he'd owed her a call for almost a month. House had put it off at first because he had nothing new to tell her; then because he had too much. It occurred to him that, having urged Carolyn to tell her daughter about them, he ought to let his mother in on the good news, too. But any hint of romance in his life raised her hopes unbearably high—she still hadn't given up on her vision of him happy, healthy, and suitably paired off—and he had an almost superstitious fear of announcing this latest development, as if that by itself could doom it to failure and give his mother another reason to grieve. He never had told her about Cameron.
Besides, telling his mother meant exposing Carolyn to his father again.
Mentally vowing to call his mother as soon as he felt more settled, House showered and gathered his laundry. The day had turned cooler and a heavy rain was falling; that, and bending and reaching for the socks under the bed and the dirty shirts in the back of the closet aggravated his leg, sending him to the prescription bottle for a dose—the first, he realized, since he'd stopped at the state park the previous day. Nothing like lust for releasing endorphins and freeing the body for more a compelling purpose than nursing its aches and pains.
The laundrymat was almost deserted, so he was able to commandeer enough machines to do two loads (darks and dingy) at once. The only other customer was a young mother with two children, a boy of about six and a girl of about eight. They raced around shrieking until a murderous look from House scared them into a corner, where they fell into conversation about their grandmother's farm. Evidently the old lady had gone into the goat breeding business, and the children were speculating about the first batch of offspring.
"I know where babies come from," the boy announced.
"You do not," said the girl.
"Yes, I do," said the boy. "A man and a woman kiss, and then they have a baby."
"What are you two talking about?" called their mother.
"Nothing," the childern chorused. Then the girl said, "Grandma says the girl goats need a boy to have babies."
"Well, I'm not going to kiss a goat!" the boy protested.
House had another attack of doubts when he returned to his apartment. He contracted with a cleaning service, but their notion of cleanliness seemed limited to cursory vacuuming and lightly spraying all-purpose cleaner into the air. For a time there'd been a maid who left the place spotless, but she belonged to Wilson, and he'd taken her with him when he moved into his own place. That was months ago, and things had gone steadily downhill ever since.
He washed the encrusted dishes in the sink, put clean sheets on his bed, and was about to do something with the tottering pile of medical journals on the coffeetable when the black thoughts hit: What's the point of trying? It didn't work out once, why should it work out now? Nothing's changed, nothing's going to change, why open a door just to have it slammed in your face?
He sat down, rubbing his leg, and looked around him. The room was grey and chill, as if no one had lived there for years. This was where he belonged—not in Carolyn's cheerful yellow and green kitchen, certainly not in her pretty blue and white bedroom. He took another pill and sagged in his chair. The phone rang. Listlessly, he answered.
"Hey. It's me." Carolyn sounded shy again. "Angie is feeling better, so I thought I'd pick up something to eat and come over. Are you hungry?"
"What time is it?"
"Five thirty."
How long had he been sitting there? "Yeah, I could eat. You know the Bangkok Palace?" His voice was regaining its earlier energy. "They do a killer pa nang."
Carolyn took the order and promised to hurry. Hanging up, House turned on a couple of lights. The room suddenly seemed a little warmer and less severe. He turned on the heat and shoved the medical journals into the hall closet, alongwith a pair of ancient decaying sneakers and a desiccated peace lily that Cameron hoped would stimulate his nurturing side. He put on some music and got out dishes and silverware. There was a knock on the door, and then there was Carolyn, riding in on a wave of basil and lemongrass aroma, looking bright and pretty and glad to see him. Just for a moment, House gave himself permission to think everything would be all right.
