Widow's Tears

by Susan Wittig Albert

  At the morning breakfast table, Mr. Blackwood always read aloud items of interest from the Galveston News, believing that the children should know what kind of world they were going to inherit. The front page story concerned the Boxer Rebellion in China, where an eight-nation alliance was fielding an army of twenty thousand men to take Beijing and release the Americans and others held captive there. On page two, the latest census dominated the local news. Since 1890, Galveston’s population had grown by nearly 30 percent, a rate much higher than rival port city Houston. (This news cheered Mr. Blackwood greatly, for he was a Galveston booster.) On page ten, Weather Bureau officials reported that they were monitoring a storm that appeared to be passing the Louisiana and Mississippi coasts, and while they felt it would probably go ashore somewhere in eastern Texas, they did not anticipate a “dangerous disturbance.” On the back page, the Galveston forecast was reassuringly routine: “For eastern Texas: Rain Saturday, with high northerly winds; Sunday rain, followed by clearing.”

  Mr. Blackwood put down the News with a smile. They must all be grateful, he remarked genially, for the good north wind, which would push the heat and humidity out into the Gulf and make for a cooler, pleasant weekend. An afternoon picnic at the beach tomorrow would be in order, he suggested with a glance at his wife. Rachel smiled and nodded as the children shouted gleefully. And of course, there was Matthew’s birthday to celebrate that afternoon, with the chocolate cake that Mrs. O’Reilly was this minute baking in the kitchen. Rachel had invited two of the neighborhood families—enough to fill all eighteen chairs at the dining room table.

  Most Galvestonians worked a six-day week, so when breakfast was over, Mr. Blackwood set off as usual for his downtown bank. Rachel sent the children out to play with their friends—all but little Angela, of course—but she had become increasingly uneasy. She could feel even more strongly now the trembling of the house under her feet and hear its sighings and moanings. If she could only have understood its language, she might have heard the house whispering to her of a powerful storm, even now churning and turning in its unstoppable journey across the Gulf. She might even have heard its insistent whisper, as plain as words, as urgent as a shout: “Run, Rachel! Take your children and go, now, while there’s still time to leave the island!”

  Rachel did not speak the language of the house and could not understand its warning. Still, she felt the tremors and thought apprehensively that the floor was beginning to vibrate in a subtle and unusual way, a drum thrumming in tune with the thudding waves, accompanied by the eerie, high-pitched whistle of the wind in the eaves. She finished consulting with Mrs. O’Reilly about the menus for next week—now written on the menu board in the kitchen—then lifted her skirts and went quickly up the wide, curving stairs.

  Three flights and a few moments later, she was opening the door to the widow’s walk at the top of the house. As she stepped outside, she pulled in her breath, startled. When she had glanced out the bedroom window at first light, the sky over the Gulf had seemed to be made of iridescent mother-of-pearl, tinted in glorious pinks and lavenders. Now, it was a flat, ominous slate gray, with heavy-bellied clouds, flushed smoky-orange by the sun, sulking along the eastern horizon. To the north and downtown, atop the Levy Building at Twenty-third and Market, the storm flag fluttered, a crimson square with a black square at its center, topped with a white pennant, both hoisted yesterday morning by their neighbor, Isaac Cline, who was in charge of the island’s weather bureau. The red-and-black storm flag meant that heavy weather was rolling in; the pennant meant that the winds would come from the northwest. But to anyone who knew his weather, the flags were reassuring, for together they predicted that the storm would come ashore to the east of the city. Galveston was not likely to see much of a blow.

  But it was the sight of the Gulf that most startled Rachel, for the normally blue-green waves were a thick, chocolate-pudding brown, laden with sand and laced with ropes of seaweed. And they weren’t waves at all, not in the usual dancing way. These were slow-moving swells, heavy, mud-brown hills of water that crashed with a roar higher and higher upon the beach, the sound shuddering through the earth, through the wooden pilings and floors and frame of the house, so that even at the highest point, on the widow’s walk, Rachel could feel the whole weight of each wave almost as if it were crashing directly against her feet.

  She could not know what was to come. No one in Galveston could know, or even imagine, that by midnight, over eight thousand of their fellow citizens would be swept away by the hurricane and drowned.

  But she could feel it coming and was afraid.

  Chapter One

  Mugwort. Artemisia vulgaris. “By-foot,” one of the many folk names of A. vulgaris, is derived from the belief that a poultice of mugwort leaves bound to the legs and ankles can reduce a walker’s weariness. Roman soldiers placed mugwort leaves in their sandals to ease the pain of marching. Mongols massaged mugwort oil on their thighs to lessen the fatigue of riding, and into their horses’ legs to promote endurance. In traditional Japanese and Chinese medicine, cones made of powdered mugwort (or “moxa”) are burned on the body to stimulate circulation in a practice called “moxibustion” (moxa + combustion). By extension, it was thought that burning moxa in the footprint of a thief would cause him to get a “hot foot” and that his uncontrollable dancing would reveal his criminal activity.

  In the language of flowers, mugwort represents the hope that the traveler will enjoy a pleasant, unwearied journey and a safe arrival.

  China Bayles

  “Herbs and Flowers That Tell a Story”

  Pecan Springs Enterprise

  “I’m outta here,” Ruby said, coming through the connecting door between her shop and Thyme and Seasons. It was warm for early May (the high was forecast to be in the 80s) and she was wearing a full-skirted lemon yellow sundress that bared her freckled arms. Her carroty red hair was snugged into a ponytail and fastened with a hank of yellow yarn, and her yellow sandals displayed red-painted toes. She looked bright and perky, like a retro 1960s sunbeam—a six-foot, red-haired sunbeam, sure to attract attention. But Ruby is magnetic. She attracts attention, whatever she’s wearing. She can’t help it. She’s a sight for sore eyes.

  “How long will you be gone?” I asked, looking up from the books I was inventorying. “Is Dawn Zudel coming in this morning?” Dawn is Ruby’s current shop helper, and a dynamo, with merry green eyes and copper-brown hair cut into a chin-length bob. She worked in a law office for eight years, then “retired” to several years as a full-time mom. Now, she comes in when we need extra help and takes care of the Crystal Cave whenever Ruby takes a few hours off, which isn’t very often. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time Ruby planned to be gone for more than a day.

  Ruby hooked her bag over her shoulder. “Yes, Dawn is opening this morning. She’ll be working for me in the tearoom, too. You know how good she is with people.” She frowned worriedly. “I told Claire I’d stay for a week. But maybe that’s too long. Is that too long, China? You’re sure you and Cass and Dawn can manage without me?”

  “Good, no, and yes, in that order.” I patted her bare shoulder reassuringly. “A week is a long time, and we will definitely miss you. It will be next to impossible to manage in your absence, even with Dawn on the job, but we’ll do it. Don’t worry about us, Ruby. You’ve been working so hard—you deserve to take some time off.” It was true. I’d been worrying about her. She had been burying herself in her work lately, scarcely coming up for air. “It looks like you’ll have good weather, too, at least for another day or two,” I added.

  Ruby looked doubtful. “Didn’t I hear that there’s a tropical wave or something out there in the Gulf somewhere, heading toward South Texas?”

  “Not to worry,” I said comfortingly. “It’s only a baby—doesn’t even have a name. It’s way too early in the season for serious hurricanes. And where you’re going, you’ll be a hundred and twenty miles inland. Think sunshine, and lots of it.”

&
nbsp; Before Ruby gets out the door, though, maybe we’d better pause for introductions. If you’ve visited Thyme and Seasons before, we’ve probably met, and you can skip the next few paragraphs. If not, this might help. Here goes.

  My name is China Bayles. I am a former criminal defense attorney who once worked for a big Houston law firm that represented big bad guys with enough dinero to pay for a pass out of the justice system. I left my law career and the city in search of a gentler, less sadistic way of life and ended up as the proprietor of an herb shop in Pecan Springs, a friendly Texas town just off I-35, halfway between Austin and San Antonio, at the eastern edge of the Hill Country. I’m married to Mike McQuaid, a former Houston homicide detective, currently a part-time faculty member in the Criminal Justice department at Central Texas State University and a more or less full-time private investigator with his own firm. McQuaid and I are the parents of two great kids: his son Brian, who just graduated high school and is headed for University of Texas at Austin in the fall; and twelve-year-old Caitlin, my niece and our adopted daughter.

  Now for that six-foot sunbeam. Ruby Wilcox and I aren’t just best friends but longtime business partners. Ruby owns the Crystal Cave, in the same building as Thyme and Seasons. The Cave is the only New Age shop in Pecan Springs—which isn’t surprising, I suppose, since most good ol’ Texans are brought up to be fidgety about things like astrology, tarot, and the Ouija board. But the shop is a perfect fit for Ruby, who is so perceptive that she sometimes scares me. It scares her, too. She doesn’t like to go too deep into otherworldly stuff, but she can tell you things about yourself that you haven’t yet discovered, and she can coax the Ouija board (as our friend Sheila Dawson puts it) to tell more tales than the gossips at Bobbi Rae’s House of Beauty. The idea that Ruby Wilcox might encourage their womenfolk to tune into something more soul-satisfying than The Young and the Restless tends to make male Pecan Springers…well, restless.

  Wait—there’s more. A couple of years ago, Ruby (who has the soul of a psychic but the planning skills of an entrepreneur) proposed that we open Thyme for Tea in the space at the back of our building, a two-story limestone structure a few blocks east of the courthouse square in Pecan Springs. We signed a partnership agreement (a good thing to have when people decide to pool their time, money, and resources on a long-term business project), rolled up our sleeves, and got busy remodeling—a lot of work, especially the kitchen, which had to meet state licensing requirements—but a big payoff. Even when the shop traffic slows down, our tearoom usually shows a profit.

  And then two more things happened. Ruby came up with the idea for Party Thyme, our catering service, and Cassandra Wilde came along with a proposal for the Thymely Gourmet. Cass uses the tearoom kitchen not only for tearoom meals, but to prepare both our catering menus and the meals she schleps to well-heeled clients who can afford to pick up the tab for their own personal chef. The business is a natural for her: Cass spent nearly fifteen years in the food service industry and is certified as a personal chef by the American Culinary Federation.

  In Cass’ words, this menagerie keeps us on our toes and moving fast, like a trio of lady lion tamers with a pride of lions at the tips of our whips. But we’re a great team, working well together, in synch like choreographed dancers. And even though we are really too busy, we always remind one another that it’s better to be busy than otherwise. Busy is what counts when it comes to the bottom line. And the bottom line (black, not red) is what counts when it comes to the bank.

  So that’s us. Where our businesses are concerned, Ruby, Cass, and I are your basic, no-nonsense, hard-working, go-for-it-now-and-don’t-stop girls. Still, every now and then even the most committed capitalist has to stop and smell the daisies. Cass took off for a few days in March to go camping with a friend. McQuaid and the kids and I stayed at my mother’s ranch near Kerrville during spring break—maybe the last time Brian will be content to spend spring break with the family.

  Now it’s Ruby’s turn, and yes, she definitely needs some time off. Spring is a difficult time for her, and the last few weeks have been especially hard. Colin Fowler, the love of her life, was killed—murdered—in late April two years ago, so this is an anniversary of sorts. She was madly in love with him, and when Ruby is in love, it is total, no-doubts-no-worries free-fall. She takes a deep breath, opens her heart, and flings herself into the void, doing double somersaults all the way down, with no bungee cord to brake her fall at the bottom, while her friends stand at the precipice, cover their eyes, and cry “Ruby, wait! What are you thinking?” With Ruby, love is either a passionate, whole-hearted, hang-onto-your-hat affair, or it isn’t. Isn’t love, that is.

  Their affair was fatally flawed from the very beginning, because Colin wasn’t who he said he was. He was Dan Reid, an undercover Dallas narcotics agent who was assigned to get the goods on a Pecan Springs businessman in cahoots with a Mexican drug cartel. Ruby loves mysteries (Agatha Christie, Sue Grafton, and Carolyn Keene are among her favorite authors), but she didn’t have a clue about Colin’s secret backstory. Her quite remarkable intuitive abilities seem to click into the “off” position when love (and/or lust) switches on.

  Ruby was devastated by Colin’s murder. She was more devastated when she learned the complicated truth about his life and still more when she discovered that she was the beneficiary of his substantial insurance policy, which she has set aside for Grace’s college fund. She’s never gotten over him, in spite of the persistent attentions of Hark Hibler, the editor of the Pecan Springs Enterprise. Hark is a man of gentle and generous spirit who truly cares for Ruby and can provide the kind of stability she needs and wants. But in every relationship I’ve known about, Ruby has adored the significant other more than he has cared for her. As long as something inside her continues to believe that love isn’t love unless it’s a one-way affair, she and Hark are not going to make it. And really—isn’t it time she got over Colin? It’s been two years, for crying out loud. And they weren’t married. She’s not a widow.

  But there’s no room for anyone else in Ruby’s heart, which is why April and May are such difficult months. And it’s why I’ve encouraged her to take some time off to visit her friend—although I’m not entirely sure she wants to go.

  Ruby began ticking off items on her fingers. “Okay. Mrs. Wauer will come over to the house to water the plants and feed the cats. Ramona will keep tabs on Mom at the nursing home. Dawn will be in every day to manage the shop—she knows a lot about everything that goes on there, but if she can’t find something, she’ll ask. I’m worried about Grace, though. Amy says she has another nasty sore throat. I really hate to go away when Grace is sick. Could you check on her every so often?”

  Mrs. Wauer is Ruby’s next-door neighbor, the one with the yappy little poodle. Ramona is Ruby’s sister, who recently moved out of Ruby’s house and got a place of her own—and a good thing, too, since they’re not the most compatible siblings in the world. Dawn Zudel is an indispensable helper in the Crystal Cave, now that she has gotten her kids—all five of them!—raised and on their own. Amy is Ruby’s wild-child daughter, partnered with Kate Rodriguez for over three years now, which is longer than some marriages last. And Grace, nearly three years old, is Ruby’s granddaughter—although Ruby definitely does not look like your average granny.

  I put down my list of books. “I’ll be glad to. But how come you can’t call and check on Grace yourself?”

  “No phone. The previous owners of Claire’s house never had a phone put in.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said incredulously.

  Ruby shook her head. “Nope. It’s the truth. And the phone company wants to charge Claire a fortune for the installation, since hers is the only house on the road.”

  “Can’t you use your cell phone?”

  “Maybe, but Claire says not to count on getting a signal. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.” She paused, looking a little apprehensive, I thought. “The house is out in the middle of nowhere, yo
u know, seven or eight miles past Round Top, at the end of a private lane off a county road. It’s isolated. I mean, really.” She caught her lower lip in her teeth. “To tell the truth, I sort of wish I…That is, maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to—”

  “Agreed to what?” I prodded, watching her closely. “Take some time off, you mean? Or go visit with Claire?”

  “Visit with Claire.” Ruby gave me a slantwise look. “She’s one of my oldest friends, but I haven’t seen her in quite a while. I don’t really know why she—” She gestured. “Couldn’t you maybe…you know, like, text her? She said she gets text messages better than voice. You could tell her we got an unexpected catering job and you can’t spare me to—”

  “Ruby,” I said firmly, “I refuse to take you off the hook. If you don’t want to go, text Claire yourself.”

  Claire Conway is a girlhood friend of Ruby’s. She worked as an editor of a magazine in San Antonio until she inherited a large old Victorian mansion in the wilds of Fayette County, off Highway 290 between Austin and Houston. She’s trying to decide what to do with the house—not an easy decision, I guess. She asked Ruby to come for a week and help her figure it out.

  Ruby sighed. After a moment, she shook her head. “I guess it’s too late to back out now. Claire’s counting on me. I just wish the Blackwood house weren’t so remote. I’d like to be able to call if I need help…or something,” she added lamely.