The Longest Ride

"Thank you," I finally say.

"There is no reason to thank me." She shrugs. "But you should roll up the window now. Before you get too cold."

I do as she tells me, my eyes never leaving hers. "I love you, Ruth," I croak.

"I know," she says, her expression tender. "That is why I have come."

The water has restored me in a way that seemed impossible even a few hours earlier. By this, I mean my mind. My body is still a wreck and I am still afraid to move, but Ruth seems comforted by my recovery. She sits quietly, listening to the chatter of my thoughts. Mostly I am preoccupied with the question of whether someone will ever find me...

In this world, after all, I've become more or less invisible. Even when I filled my tank with gasoline - which led to me getting lost, I now think - the woman behind the counter looked past me, toward a young man in jeans. I've become what the young are afraid of becoming, just another member of the nameless elderly, an old and broken man with nothing left to offer to this world.

My days are inconsequential, comprising simple moments and even simpler pleasures. I eat and sleep and think of Ruth; I wander the house and stare at the paintings, and in the mornings, I feed the pigeons that gather in my backyard. My neighbor complains about this. He thinks the birds are a disease-ridden nuisance. He may have a point, but he also cut down a magnificent maple tree that straddled our properties simply because he was tired of raking the leaves, so his judgment isn't something that I consider altogether trustworthy. Anyway, I like the birds. I like the gentle cooing noises they make and I enjoy watching their heads bob up and down as they pursue the seed I scatter for them.

I know that most people consider me to be a recluse. That's how the journalist described me. As much as I despise the word and what it implies, there is some truth to what she wrote about me. I've been a widower for years, a man without children, and as far as I know, I have no living relatives. My friends, aside from my attorney, Howie Sanders, have long since passed away, and since the media storm - the one unleashed by the article in the New Yorker - I seldom leave the house. It's easier that way, but I frequently wonder whether I should have ever talked to the journalist in the first place. Probably not, but when Janice or Janet or whatever her name was showed up at the door unannounced, her dark hair and intelligent eyes reminded me of Ruth, and the next thing I knew, she was standing in the living room. She didn't leave for the next six hours. How she found out about the collection, I still don't know. Probably from an art dealer up north - they can be bigger gossips than schoolgirls - but even so, I didn't blame her for all that followed. She was doing her job and I could have asked her to leave, but instead I answered her questions and allowed her to take photographs. After she left, I promptly put her out of my mind. Then, a few months later, a squeaky-voiced young man who described himself as a fact-checker for the magazine phoned to verify things that I had said. Naively, I gave him the answers he wanted, only to receive a small package in the mail several weeks later. The journalist had been thoughtful enough to send me a copy of the issue in which the article appeared. Needless to say, the article enraged me. I threw it away after reading what she'd written, but later after I'd cooled down, I retrieved it from the trash and read it once more. In retrospect, I realized it wasn't her fault that she hadn't understood what I'd been trying to tell her. In her mind, after all, the collection was the entirety of the story.

That was six years ago, and it turned my life upside down. Bars went up on the windows and a fence was installed that circled the yard. I had a security system put in, and the police began making a point to drive past my house at least twice a day. I was deluged with phone calls. Reporters. Producers. A screenwriter who promised to put the story on the big screen. Three or four lawyers. Two people who claimed to be related, distant cousins on Ruth's side of the family. Strangers down on their luck and looking for handouts. In the end, I simply unplugged the phone, for all of them - including the journalist - thought about the art only in terms of money.

What every last person failed to see was that it was not about money; it was about the memories they held. If Ruth had the letters I wrote her, I had the paintings and the memories. When I see the de Koonings and the Rauschenbergs and the Warhols, I recall the way Ruth held me as we stood by the lake; when I see the Jackson Pollock, I am reliving that first trip to New York in 1950. We were halfway through our trip, and on a whim we drove out to Springs, a hamlet near East Hampton on Long Island. It was a glorious summer day and Ruth wore a yellow dress. She was twenty-eight then and growing more beautiful with every passing day, something that Pollock did not fail to notice. I am convinced that it was her elegant bearing that moved him to allow two strangers into his studio. It also explains why he eventually allowed Ruth to purchase a painting he'd only recently completed, something he seldom, if ever, did again. Later that afternoon, on our way back to the city, Ruth and I stopped at a small cafe in Water Mill. It was a charming place with scuffed wood floors and sun-drenched windows, and the owner led us to a wobbly outdoor table. On that day, Ruth ordered white wine, something light and sweet, and we sipped from our glasses while gazing out over the Sound. The breeze was light and the day was warm, and when we spotted the occasional boat passing in the distance, we'd wonder aloud where it might be headed.

Hanging next to that painting is a work by Jasper Johns. We bought it in 1952, the summer that Ruth's hair was at its longest. The first faint lines were beginning to form at the corners of her eyes, adding a womanly quality to her face. She and I had stood atop the Empire State Building earlier that morning, and later in the quiet of our hotel room, Ruth and I made love for hours before she finally fell asleep in my arms. I could not sleep that day. Instead, I stared at her, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest, her skin warm against my own. In the dim surroundings of that room, her hair splayed over the pillow, I found myself asking whether any man had ever been as lucky as I.

This is why I wander our house late at night; this is why the collection remains intact. This is why I've never sold a single painting. How could I? In the oils and pigments I store my memories of Ruth; in every painting I recall a chapter of our lives together. There is nothing more precious to me. They are all I have left of the wife I've loved more than life itself, and I will continue to stare and remember until I can do it no more.

Before she passed, Ruth sometimes joined me on these late-hour wanderings, for she, too, enjoyed being drawn back in time. She, too, liked to retell the stories, even if she never realized that she was the heroine in all of them. She would hold my hand as we wandered from room to room, both of us reveling as the past came alive.

My marriage brought great happiness into my life, but lately there's been nothing but sadness. I understand that love and tragedy go hand in hand, for there can't be one without the other, but nonetheless I find myself wondering whether the trade-off is fair. A man should die as he had lived, I think; in his final moments, he should be surrounded and comforted by those he's always loved.

But I already know that in my final moments, I will be alone.

18

Sophia

T

he next few weeks were one of those rare and wonderful interludes in which almost everything made Sophia believe nothing could be better.

Her classes were stimulating, her grades were excellent, and even though she hadn't heard from the Denver Art Museum, her adviser recommended her for an internship at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. She would interview there over Christmas break. It wasn't a paid position and she would probably have to commute from home if she got it, but it was MoMA. Never in her wildest dreams had she considered it a possibility.

In the limited time that she spent at the sorority house, she'd noticed that Marcia was developing a prance in her step - the same one she got whenever she'd focused on someone special. She was in a perpetually good mood, despite her denials that a guy had anything to do with it. At the same time, Mary-Kate had significantly

reduced her responsibilities at the sorority - other than attending mandatory meetings, Sophia was for the most part exempt from sisterly obligations. Granted, this was probably the result of her own perfunctory attitude, but hey, whatever worked. Best of all, she hadn't run into Brian around campus - nor had he texted or called - making it easy to forget they'd ever dated.

And then, of course, there was Luke.

For the first time, she felt she understood what loving someone really meant. Since their weekend in the cabin - aside from Thanksgiving, when she'd gone home to visit her family - they'd spent every Saturday night together at the ranch, mostly in each other's arms. In between kisses, the feel of his bare skin electric against her own, she reveled in the sound of his voice telling her over and over how much he adored her and how much she'd come to mean to him. In the darkness, she would gently trace her finger over his scars, sometimes finding a new one that she hadn't noticed before; they would talk until the early hours of the morning, pausing only to make love once more. The passion they felt for each other was intoxicating, something entirely different from what she'd felt with Brian. It was a connection that transcended the physical act. She'd grown to appreciate the quiet way Luke would slip from the bed first thing on Sunday mornings to feed the animals and check the cattle, trying his best not to wake her. Usually she would doze again, only to be awakened later with a cup of hot coffee and his presence beside her. Sometimes they'd while away an hour or more on the porch or simply make breakfast together. Almost always they'd take the horses out, sometimes for an entire afternoon. The crisp winter air would turn her cheeks red and make her hands ache, yet in those moments she felt connected to Luke and the ranch in a way that made her wonder why it had taken her so long to find him.

As the holidays loomed closer, they would spend much of the weekend in the grove of Christmas trees. While Luke did the cutting, hauling, and tying up of the trees, Sophia worked the register. During lulls, she was able to study for finals.

Luke had also begun to practice in earnest on the mechanical bull again. Sometimes she'd watch him atop the hood of a rusting tractor in the rickety barn. The bull was set up in a makeshift ring thickly padded with foam to break his falls. Usually he started off slowly, riding just hard enough to loosen his muscles, before setting the bull on high. The bull would spin and dip and shift directions abruptly, yet somehow Luke would stay centered, holding his free hand up and away from his body. He would ride three or four times, then sit with her while he recovered. Then he would climb into the ring again, the practice session sometimes lasting up to two hours. Though he never complained, she could recognize his soreness in the way he occasionally winced while shifting position or altering his walk. Sunday nights often found him in his bedroom, surrounded by candles as Sophia kneaded his muscles, trying to work out his aches and pains.

Though they spent little time together on campus, they would sometimes go to dinner or a movie, and once they even visited a country bar, where they listened to the same band that had been playing on the night they'd met, Luke teaching her to line dance at last. Luke made the world more vivid somehow, more real, and when they weren't together, she inevitably found her thoughts drifting toward him.

The second week of December brought with it an early cold front, a heavy storm that blew down from Canada. It was the first snow of the season, and though most of it had melted by the following afternoon, Sophia and Luke spent part of the morning admiring the white-capped beauty of the ranch before hiking to the grove of Christmas trees on what ended up being the busiest day to that point.

Later, as had become their habit, they headed over to his mother's. While Luke worked on replacing the brake pads in his truck, Linda taught Sophia how to bake. Luke hadn't been lying about how good her pies were, and they passed an enjoyable afternoon in the kitchen, chatting and laughing, their aprons coated with flour.

Spending time with Linda reminded Sophia of her parents and all the sacrifices they'd made for her. Watching Linda and Luke tease and joke with each other made her wonder whether she'd have the same kind of relationship with her own parents someday. Gone would be the little girl they remembered; in her place would be not only their daughter, but perhaps a friend as well. Being part of Luke's life had made her feel more like an adult. With only a semester to go, she no longer wondered what the point of college had been. The ups and downs, the dreams and struggles, had all been part of the journey, she realized - a journey that led to a cattle ranch near a town called King, where she had fallen in love with a cowboy named Luke.

"Again?" Marcia whined. She crossed her legs on the bed, pulling her oversize sweater down over her tights. "What? Twelve weekends in a row at the ranch weren't enough for you?"

"You're exaggerating." Sophia rolled her eyes, adding a final coat of lip gloss. Next to her, her small bag was already packed.

"Of course I am. But it's our last weekend before Christmas break. We leave on Wednesday, and I've barely spent any time with you at all this semester."

"We're together all the time," Sophia protested.

"No," Marcia said. "We used to spend time together. Now you're at the ranch with him almost every weekend. You didn't even go to the winter formal last weekend. Our winter formal."

"You know I don't care for those kinds of events."

"Don't you mean he doesn't care for them?"

Sophia brought her lips together, not wanting to sound defensive but feeling the first hint of irritation in the way Marcia sounded. "Neither of us wanted to go, okay? He was working and he needed my help."

Marcia ran her hand through her hair, clearly exasperated. "I don't know how to say this without making you mad at me."

"Say what?"

"You're making a mistake."

"What are you talking about?" Sophia put down her tube of lip gloss and turned to face her friend.

Marcia tossed up her hands. "Think about how it looks - imagine what you'd say if our roles were reversed. Say I was in a relationship for two years --"

"Not likely," Sophia stopped her.

"Okay, and I know it's hard, but just pretend. I'm doing this for you. Say I went through a truly awful breakup and was hiding out in my room for weeks, then out of the blue, I meet this guy. So I talk to him and visit him the next day, and then talk to him on the phone and visit him the next weekend. Pretty soon, I'm treating him like he's my whole world and spending every free minute with him. What would you think? That it just so happened that I met Mr. Right while I was rebounding from a horrible breakup? I mean, what are the odds?"

Sophia could feel blood begin to pound in her veins. "I don't know what you're trying to say."

"I'm saying that you could be making a mistake. And that if you're not careful, you could end up getting hurt."

"I'm not making a mistake," Sophia snapped, zipping up the bag. "And I'm not going to get hurt. I like spending time with Luke."

"I know." Marcia softened, patting the bed beside her. "Sit down with me," she pleaded. "Please?"

Sophia debated before crossing the room and taking a seat on the bed. Marcia faced her.

"I get that you like him," she said. "I really do. And I'm glad you're happy again. But where do you see this going? I mean, if it were me, I'd be happy to hang out and have fun, just see where it goes and live for the day. But I'd never let myself think for one minute that I'm going to spend the rest of my life with the guy."

"I'm not thinking that either," Sophia interjected.

Marcia picked at her sweater. "Are you sure? Because that's not the impression I get." She paused, her expression almost sad. "You shouldn't have fallen in love with him. And every time you're with him, you're only making it worse for yourself."

Sophia flushed. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because you're not thinking clearly," Marcia answered. "If you were, you'd be thinking about the fact that you're a senior in college - an art history major from New Jersey, for God's sake - while Luke rides bulls and lives on a ra

nch in rural North Carolina. You'd be wondering what was going to happen in six months, once you graduate." She stopped, forcing Sophia to concentrate on what she was really saying. "Can you imagine living on a ranch for the next fifty years? Riding horses, herding cows, and cleaning out stalls for the rest of your life?"

She shook her head. "No --"

"Oh," Marcia said, cutting her off. "Then maybe you see Luke living in New York City while you work at a museum? Maybe you imagine the two of you spending every Sunday morning at the latest brunch hot spots, sipping cappuccinos and reading the New York Times? Is that how you picture your future together?"

When Sophia didn't answer, Marcia reached over and squeezed her hand.

"I know how much you care about him," she went on. "But your lives aren't just on different tracks, they're on different continents. And that means you're going to have to watch your heart from here on, because if you don't, it's going to end up breaking into all sorts of pieces."