The Orchid Sister
Page 1
PRAISE FOR ANNE D. LECLAIRE
The Halo Effect
“Anne LeClaire’s new novel The Halo Effect takes us into the life, the grief, the anguish, and the ultimate redemption of a man who has endured the excruciating loss of his only child through murder. It makes an eloquent statement about the curative power of the creative act and the leap of faith it takes to choose living and loving when the black peace of death seems so seductive. It’s beautifully done.”
—Elizabeth George, New York Times bestselling author
“The terms ‘literary’ and ‘page-turner’ dovetail beautifully in Anne D. LeClaire’s new novel. The Halo Effect is a must-read for LeClaire’s faithful fans and a sit-up-and-take-notice book for those who have yet to discover this talented, truth-seeking storyteller who asks the big questions as she observes the small but intricate details that make us human.”
—Wally Lamb, New York Times bestselling author
“The Halo Effect will keep you turning pages, and fast. But it is that rarest of page turners, a novel that illuminates our frailties and the depths of grief while also managing to be hopeful and wholly human. Anne D. LeClaire has written a bighearted book that will leave you breathless.”
—Ann Hood, author of The Knitting Circle and The Book That Matters Most
“The Halo Effect is a wonderful hybrid: a compelling murder mystery and a thoughtful meditation on longing and loss. I was fascinated by the book’s saints—and sinners.”
—Chris Bohjalian, author of Midwives and The Sandcastle Girls
“Profoundly moving and deeply satisfying.”
—Margot Livesey, New York Times bestselling author
“I wasn’t ready for this one. As a fan of Anne LeClaire’s work I knew her writing would be its usual excellence, watchful, luminous, and moving, but in The Halo Effect she has also drawn a New England community in its exact contours by placing it under the revealing pressure of tragedy. The result is a mystery at once literate, intimate, and almost intolerably suspenseful—reminiscent of Louise Penny at her best.”
—Charles Finch, New York Times bestselling author of the Charles Lenox series
“Prepare yourself for one of the most important books of the year.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Anne LeClaire has a genuine knack for writing deftly created characters and embedding them in inherently fascinating, unpredictable narrative-driven story lines. The Halo Effect is a riveting read from cover to cover.”
—Midwest Book Reviews
“I love this book. It is a master class in voice and character.”
—Hallie Ephron, New York Times bestselling author
Listening Below the Noise:
The Transformative Power of Silence
“Luminous.”
—PBS NewsHour
“Eloquent and moving . . . Although technically a memoir, this book moves beyond that genre into spirituality and philosophy. LeClaire’s reputation as a novelist may draw readers to this lovely book, which should also have crossover appeal to spiritual seekers of any religion and no religion.”
—Booklist
The Lavender Hour
“LeClaire packs this winning novel with resounding life lessons and a resonating set of romantic relationships.”
—Kirkus Reviews
Entering Normal
“Exquisite . . . A beauty . . . If you love the feel of Anne Tyler’s novels, then this has your name all over it.”
—Daily Mirror (London)
“In rich and limpid prose, LeClaire shifts the point of view . . . focusing on the small acts that get us through the day, or the night, or not. A woman’s book in the best possible sense, this will leave readers warm and satisfied.”
—Booklist
“An emotional wallop comparable to that produced by Sue Miller’s The Good Mother or Jane Hamilton’s A Map of the World.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A gentle, spirited novel about friendship and survival.”
—USA Today
Leaving Eden
“A light, breezy novel about serious subjects. It’s eventful, with a lingering death, a murder, a secret revealed, to say nothing of a makeover.”
—Boston Globe
“Artfully crafted characters resonate within this emotional novel detailing one girl’s ability to face the hardships of her life.”
—Romantic Times
The Law of Bound Hearts
“Recommended . . . LeClaire has crafted authentic characters and successfully portrays the power of forgiveness.”
—Library Journal
“A gripping, emotional intensity and depth of feeling highlight this poignant and lyrical novel, which illustrates how precious life is.”
—Romantic Times
ALSO BY ANNE D. LECLAIRE
Fiction
The Halo Effect
The Lavender Hour
Entering Normal
Leaving Eden
The Law of Bound Hearts
Land’s End
Grace Point
Every Mother’s Son
Sideshow
Nonfiction
Listening Below the Noise: The Transformative Power of Silence
Children’s Fiction
Kaylee Finds a Friend
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2019 by Anne D. LeClaire
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503903272
ISBN-10: 1503903273
Cover design by Faceout Studio, Tim Green
Dedicated with gratitude to my tribe:
You know who you are.
Thanks for always having my back.
CONTENTS
START READING
ON THE NATURE OF THINGS
MADISON
KATHERINE
MADISON
KATHERINE
MADISON
GRACIELA
KATHERINE
MADISON
KATHERINE
MADISON
GRACIELA
MADISON
KATHERINE
MADISON
MADISON
MADISON
MADISON
KATHERINE
MADISON
TIA CLARA
MADISON
KATHERINE
MADISON
ÁNGEL
MADISON
TIA CLARA
MADISON
TIA CLARA
MADISON
KATHERINE
MADISON
VÍCTOR
MADISON
TIA CLARA
MADISON
KATHERINE
MADISON
VÍCTOR
TIA CLARA
GRACIELA
MADISON
TIA CLARA
GRACIELA
MADISON
MADISON
MADISON
GRACIELA
MADISON
KATHERINE
TIA CLARA
MADISON
KATHERINE
VÍCTOR
KATHERINE
MADISON
GRACIELA
MADISON
VÍCTOR
MADISON
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
There was Pantagruel told by the keeper of the fountain that it was his wont to recast old women, so making them again young and by his art to become like to the young wenches there present whom he had that very day recast—and altogether restored to that same beauty, form, size, elegance and disposition of limbs as they had displayed at the age of fifteen or sixteen years . . .
—Rabelais
. . . and the mask is torn off, reality remains.
—Lucretius
ON THE NATURE OF THINGS
Tia Clara woke at dawn from a restless night troubled by a dream of lost girls and a much-scarred woman of many masks. A crescent-shaped shadow obscured the eastern sun. Despite this sign—or perhaps because of it—she was mindful to begin the day as usual, dressing in her worn cotton blouse and dark skirt, the hem of which brushed against her swollen ankles. She tied the strings of her old apron around her waist. She undid and replaited her thick braid of white hair with fingers so practiced she required no mirror. Her nose was thin and curved, her skin as weathered and wrinkled as that of a sea turtle. Like the sea turtle, she, too, had a reptilian dip to her neck so that her head jutted forward, a result of a spine curved not only by the decades but by years spent watching. Listening. Finally, although it was still early for the tourists, she gathered her things—small folding chair and table, embroidered cloth, umbrella to ward off the heat of the sun, collapsible wooden frame, small carton of her wares, and, lastly, the canary cage—and set them in the two-wheeled cart. As she pushed the cart over the uneven calle leading to the village square, the burden of knowledge weighed heavily on her. She carried inside her the truths of Playa del Pedro, stories sung to her by the ancestors, confided by the sea, whispered to her by the wind. In this way, she had learned the past and foreseen the future of the village, all that had been and that which was to come.
A stranger watching as she unfolded the legs of her table and set it on a patch of sidewalk would detect no indication of the disquiet that lingered in her heart—unrest caused by the sleepless night and troubling dreams, the penumbral sunrise, and the knowledge she held. Taking care, she shook out the ecru linen that had once belonged to her madre and her abuela before that. The edges were adorned with silken threads of green and blue, yellow and orange. She smoothed the folds with gnarled fingers grown thick at the knuckles and spread the linen over the table.
Muttering imprecations, she lifted her chair from the cart and, as she did every day, set it behind the table. She had selected this spot years ago, a favorable site across from the taxi stand and next to Solano’s bakery. She watched as the daily life of the village awoke around her. In contrast to the dark visions of the previous night and the omen of the shrouded dawn sun, all appeared almost festive. Music boomed from the speakers in the square; the trill of young laughter floated from a nearby calle; satisfying aromas wafted her way from the bakery. In a few minutes, Juan Solano would send his son over with a cup of atole for her and, for the bird, crumbs of day-old bread.
She watched as Jesús Rodríguez chose a seat in front of the bakery. Soon Aldo Ventura would join him, and the two would position stones on a backgammon board, its red and black points faded to shades so dull as to be almost indistinguishable. They would agree, as they did every morning, that the loser would pay for the coffee. This would be Rodríguez. Not because he was the poorer player, but because Aldo cheated. She turned her attention away. These toothless old men were of little concern.
On Avenida Cinco, two federales patrolled the waterfront. She could remember a time when there were no federales in Playa, no Hotel Molcas. No norteamericanos. And little crime. She could remember when the park was only a rough field where the men who worked on the coconut plantation played ball. She studied the air around the soldiers and saw the shimmer of red, the vibration of the fire serpent. The younger of the two strutted with the self-importance of a rooster. A whistle from the pier signaling the morning boat from the island brought Tia Clara back to the business of the day. She opened the cardboard box and took out string hammocks, woven shawls, and a selection of belts, which she hung from the dowels of the hinged wooden frame. Vanilla blossoms and dragonflies were carved into the wood. Felipe the carpenter had made the frame for her after she had cured his infant son, who had suffered from ill winds during the first weeks after his birth.
Once the carton was empty, Tia Clara opened her umbrella and screwed its small clamp onto one end of the table’s edge, throwing half the surface into shade. In the shadowed section she set down the wood and wire cage. Pieces of broken mirror, affixed to the wires with red and yellow yarn, caught the sun’s reflection, causing them to dance around the sidewalk and square. Her shawls and hammocks were well made, as good as any shop in Playa, but it was the bird that drew the tourists. “Adivinación?” Tia Clara called when they passed. A sign on the table informed passersby: FORTUNES FOR SIX PESOS. At first they would keep their distance, reluctant to be drawn in, but they always stepped closer once she opened the cage and took out the canary. It was not yellow but green, which she knew was the most successful color for canaries. Head cocked, the bird would consider the cards, pluck one from the spread. Holding the card in its beak, it would cross to her hand, perch on her wrist, and drop it into her open palm. By now, Tia Clara would have chosen a single tourist to receive the card—most often a woman, as women were more open to this kind of thing—and give a brief reading. If it was the first reading of the morning, she would wave away the offered pesos. It brought bad luck to charge for the day’s first fortune.
In the beginning she had used an ancient deck, but she soon realized that the tourists did not like it. They wanted to know about money and love—always love—and they did not want to see images foretelling illness or sorrow, loss and regret that waited on the horizon, confirming what Tia Clara had learned long ago: it took a sturdy heart to bear the weight of truth. Now she spread out small pink cards printed with words like Love, Fortune, Happiness, and Health.
The ferry whistle sounded again. Tia Clara took her medicine pouch from the pocket of her apron and sifted dried chia onto her palm, then sprinkled it on the table at the four directions for the creatures that held up the sky. Armadillo, Snail, Turtle, and Crab. Even for the gringos, things had to be properly done. Then, moving quickly, furtively, she tossed an extra pinch into the air, a gesture to placate old ghosts and quiet new fears.
“Buenos días, Tia Clara.” Paco, the baker’s son, held out a cup of the thick chocolate atole, sweetened with honey, scented with vanilla. He placed a small saucer of dried crumbs on the table.
“Gracias,” she said. Recently, because he was in love with María, the middle daughter of Eduardo Linones, the wispy second shell that she could see enfolding Paco’s body was a shade of rose, dusted with gold.
She finished with the chia, pulled tight the drawstrings of the pouch, and thrust it back in her pocket. She dumped the crumbs on the floor of the wire cage and returned the bird to its perch.
Now prepared, she gathered the folds of her skirt between her knees and waited for the passengers to disembark from the ferry. She sipped the drink Paco had brought, felt its warmth spread through her, and cast her eyes across the street, where Jorge Portillo slept in the rear seat of his ancient Pontiac with its ragged pockets of rust in the rocker panels and doors. The dark visions of the night clouded her sight. Three weeks had passed since Jorge had driven a tourist to the airport at Cancún or the ruins of Coba and Uxmal. Even with her poor hearing, Tia Clara could catch the jagged cadence of his snores. From the near distance, she saw Inez Portillo approach. Inez walked past the taxi stand where Jorge slept, not sparing a glance at her husband. Before she passed Tia Clara’s table, she crossed to the other side of the calle, heading for the chapel in the center of the square. Sorrow lay on the woman’s sh
oulders like a cloak. The shell that surrounded her pulsated a brilliant, silvery white. This, Tia Clara knew, was the true color of grief. A dark hole pierced the vapor above Inez’s heart.
Three weeks ago, Graciela Portillo had disappeared. Every day since, morning and evening, Inez went to kneel before the Virgin, to light candles and pray for the return of her eldest daughter. Go home, Tia Clara could have told her. There is nothing that prayers can do for Graciela now. And the father of your little ones drinks all night and sleeps his days away in the back seat of his car. These children need you now. Go home. Tia Clara did not say these things. Inez would continue to light candles. Jorge would continue to drink. The young ones would survive. And when she was ready, Inez would come to Tia Clara, who would cast the black and white corn. And then? This question haunted Tia Clara. Would she tell Inez what she had seen, what the sea had whispered to her? Would she reveal that Graciela had been with child when she left Playa del Pedro? That the infant, a boy who would have been Inez’s first grandchild, was to die unborn? And finally, even knowing that it would deepen the darkness in the shell above Inez Portillo’s heart, would she reveal the rest? Would she tell Inez that the daughter, as she had known her, was lost? That already the ancestors wept for the child she had been? Tia Clara, too, grieved for Graciela, a child she knew possessed a great gift, but she did not waste tears. Long ago, she had learned that tears changed nothing.
Behind shut lips, Tia Clara muttered to herself, her mouth moving as if she were chewing prayers. She reached again into her apron pocket and withdrew a coil of red twine. With agile movements despite swollen fingers, she formed and knotted the string in three loops. She bent over and set the twine on the ground and then took a wooden match from her pocket. She struck the head on the surface of the sidewalk and watched it jump to life. If it were possible, she would have touched the flame to the past, burning memory. Instead, she ignited the bright coil of thread. The twine twisted and curled until each knot was consumed by the flame. She watched the smoke as it spiraled upward. A clockwise direction. That was good. Still, she feared it was too late to protect Graciela or the others who were in the dark place.
She listened to the murmur of the sea. The events unfolding now were inevitable, rooted in her past and that of others, in actions born of love and of passion, feelings twisted and deformed. Her time of reckoning was coming. She understood that past, present, and future were as irrevocably connected as the three knots of red twine that smoldered at her feet. But this morning, as she readied for the tourists and performed her rituals, Tia Clara was unprepared for what was to come and for the scarred woman of many masks.