Holly Blues

by ALBERT, SUSAN WITTIG

  I sat down on the edge of the bed, noticing a bruise on her forearm. “Where’d that come from, Caitie?” I asked, touching it gently. “Does it hurt?”

  “Not much,” she said, pulling up her sleeve and peering at it. “I got it playing soccer.” She looked up with that smile that always goes straight to my heart. “Did you know that Uncle Mike is going to be one of our soccer coaches?”

  “No, I didn’t know,” I said. “That’s great, Caitie! He’ll be very good.” Privately, I hoped that he wouldn’t yell too much. McQuaid puts all of himself into the game, even when he’s not playing it. He has a tendency to get excited.

  She turned a page of her book. “It’ll be fun to have him there. Most of the other girls’ dads are too busy.”

  “He might not be able to make all the practice sessions,” I said, “but I’m sure he’ll do his best.” I smoothed her dark hair back from her forehead. “Don’t forget about tomorrow evening. We’re getting our Christmas tree.”

  Caitlin looked up at me eagerly. “Is Sally coming with us?”

  “Yes, she is—at least, that’s the plan. Are you glad?”

  “Uh-huh.” She nodded forcefully. “I really like Sally. She knows an awful lot about fairies, stuff I’ve never heard of. And she’s fun, too. I’m glad she’s going to have her stocking on our mantel. Right next to mine.”

  Our mantel. This time last year, I hadn’t even known Caitlin. Now, she was our daughter. Brian’s comment about his mother went through my mind, and I shivered a little. I wanted to be able to count on Sally, if only for Caitie’s sake—and Brian’s, too. Mentally, I crossed my fingers that Sally would behave herself.

  “Well, good,” I said cheerfully, and bent over and kissed her. “Now, let’s put your book away and I’ll tuck you in.”

  Caitlin put her book on the bedside table, then reached up and threw both arms around my neck. “I love you, Aunt China,” she whispered in my ear, and kissed me on the cheek.

  Some kisses and hugs you have to work for, or hope for. Others come as a gift. They’re priceless.

  Chapter Five

  Heigh ho! Sing, heigh-ho! Unto the green holly:

  Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:

  Then, heigh-ho! The holly!

  This life is most jolly.

  William Shakespeare,

  As You Like It, Act 2

  A lovely thing about Christmas is that it’s compulsory, like a thunderstorm, and we all go through it together.

  Garrison Keillor

  On my way to the shop the next morning, I stopped off at Lila’s Diner for one of Lila’s lemon custard jelly doughnuts for me and a raspberry doughnut for Ruby. Neither of us are sugar addicts, but our morning always seems a little brighter when it begins with one of Lila’s jelly doughnuts.

  Lila’s Diner is an old Missouri Pacific dining car, located on Nueces, catty-corner from Ranchers State Bank. Lila bought the old railroad car with her husband, Ralph, who fell victim to his two-pack-a-day habit several years ago. (Never believe that all herbs are warm and fuzzy. Tobacco is an herb. It kills.) The two of them scrubbed the old railroad car clean and furnished it with vintage items they picked up at going-out-of-business sales: 1940s and ’50s red Formica-topped tables, chrome chairs with red vinyl seats, soda pop signs, and a Wurlitzer jukebox loaded with scratchy 45s featuring Elvis, Buddy Holly, and Patsy Cline. Lila herself wears a green puckered-nylon uniform, a ruffled white apron, a flirty white cap perched on her pageboy do, and cherry red lips and nails. She looks like something out of a fifties advertisement for the sandwich counter at Wool-worth’s. She is locally notorious for her coffee, which (for me, anyway) is like drinking pure adrenaline.

  Unfortunately, what has been brewing at the diner for the past couple of months is mostly trouble. Docia, Lila’s daughter and the culinary mastermind behind the diner’s comfort-food menu, ran off to Waco with her boyfriend, taking with her all of the diner’s culinary secrets. Lila has suffered through a series of temporary replacements, none of whom were half as talented as Docia. Lila’s customers have suffered, too. They’ve complained long and loud about the startling decline in the quality of the meatloaf (Monday), fried chicken (Wednesday) and catfish (Friday). It has been reliably rumored that Lila has had it up to her painted eyebrows and is ready to sell out.

  But this morning, Lila was beaming sunnily from behind the counter, while from the kitchen came the clang of banging pots and Docia’s mournful rendition of “I Fall to Pieces.” Docia, who is past thirty-five and on the chunky side, can really belt out a song.

  “Docia’s back,” Lila confided. She shoved a white mug across the counter and picked up the coffeepot. She raised her voice, speaking to the customers at the counter. “Chicken and dumplings fer dinner today, boys.” The announcement met with a murmur of masculine appreciation.

  “That’s great,” I said approvingly. “I’ll take the doughnuts with me,” I added hastily, pushing the cup away just in time to stop her from splashing tar-black coffee into it.

  “ ’Bout time she got her tail back here,” growled Bubba Harris, our former police chief, sitting on his usual stool by the cash register. Mrs. Bubba was visiting the grandchildren, and Bubba had been batching it since Thanksgiving. “I’m ready for some o’ them dumplin’s o’ hers. Ain’t been the same ’round here since Docia left.”

  On the other side of Bubba, Tom Lancer sopped up the last of his fried egg with his toast. Tom works at the feed store, where he keeps abreast of the news. “You still thinkin’ of sellin’ out to Bert Dankins, Lila? Heard you was.”

  Bert Dankins? I gave an involuntary shudder. Bert owns a sandwich shop about a block from the campus. He makes a fair submarine sandwich, but I couldn’t imagine him turning out anything remotely comparable to Docia’s lemon meringue pie.

  “I was considerin’ it,” Lila chirped, putting my jelly doughnuts into a brown paper bag. “Bert offered me a fair price, too. But now that Docia’s back, I’m outta the mood to sell. Back t’ stay, she says, and I b’lieve her. That’ll be two fifty,” she said to me, and punched my receipt. Ten punched receipts, and I get a free doughnut.

  “How come she’s back?” I asked, taking the bag and handing over my money. “Did she and her boyfriend split up?” The question may seem tactless to you, but Docia’s boyfriend troubles are the stuff of legend. The customers know that she’s in love when they hear her crooning “Love Me Tender.” When we hear her singing “I Fall to Pieces” we know that her heart is broken, usually because she’s been jilted.

  This time, apparently, it was the other way around. “He’s in jail,” Lila replied shortly. “Good place fer him, you ask me.”

  “Ask her how come,” Bubba prompted me. When I hesitated, he leaned over and nudged me. “Go on, Miz McQuaid. Ask her.” Bubba knows perfectly well that I use my own name. Calling me “Miz McQuaid” is his way of reminding me that my husband is still the boss.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll bite. Why is Docia’s boyfriend in jail?”

  On the other side of the kitchen partition, “I Fall to Pieces” was silenced in midverse.

  “ ’Cause Docia snitched on him,” Lila said.

  I raised my eyebrows. This was something new. “Snitched on him for what?”

  “Fer sellin’ drugs to kids, that’s fer what,” Lila snapped. Lila almost never approves of her daughter’s boyfriends. But since Docia is thirty-five and presumably an adult, Lila can’t do much about it.

  “Good for Docia,” I said approvingly.

  Bubba nodded. He raised his voice. “Good fer you, Docia.”

  “Fer shure,” Tom Lancer agreed. “They oughtta give Docia a job over at the po-lice department,” he added loudly. “Long as they let her out long enough to git over here’n make lunch.”

  In the kitchen, Docia slammed a pot. “Go to hell, Tom Lancer,” she yelled.

  “Not ’til I get me some o’ them dumplin’s,” Tom yelled back and winked at me.

&nb
sp; Bubba grinned, Lila smiled, and so did I.

  The diner was back to normal.

  IT was still early when I got to the shop, unlocked the front door, and stepped inside. I took a deep breath of the mix of fragrances that greeted me and felt as I always do: deeply grateful for being able to work in a lovely, peaceful place, far away from the Houston rat race where I once made a high-powered living chasing low-life rats through the courts.

  And it is a lovely place. Wooden shelves along the old stone walls hold large jars and massive stoneware crocks full of dried herbs, small bottles of herb tinctures, and tiny vials of essential oils and fragrance oils. There are herbal seasonings, vinegars, and jellies, as well as herbal soaps, cosmetics, and aromatic oils—oh, and those little squirt canisters of pure hot pepper. Books line the walls of a cozy reading corner that also features a red-painted rocking chair, in case someone wants to sit for a moment, and nearby there’s a rack of handmade paper and cards. Baskets of pomanders and sachets fill the corners, dusty-sweet bunches of yarrow and tansy and salvia hang from the ceiling, ropes of pungent peppers and silvery garlic braids festoon the walls, and the walls are brightened by Donna’s holiday wreaths, lending a sweet, spicy fragrance to the air. I’ve pinned up sprigs of holly and mistletoe everywhere, and there’s a potted rosemary plant on one table, trimmed in the shape of a Christmas tree and decorated with handcrafted herbal ornaments. Looking around, I couldn’t help smiling.

  “Is that you, China?” Ruby called from the adjoining shop.

  “It’s me,” I called back. “Brought you a jelly doughnut. Raspberry.”

  “Oh, yum,” Ruby said. I went into her shop. She was sitting on a stool in front of her book rack, shelving books. Khat, our shop Siamese, was lying on the floor beside her. “Just put it on the counter, and I’ll get to it in a minute,” she said. “So how did it go last night?” she added over her shoulder. “Supper with Sally, I mean.”

  Ruby’s bookshelves offer all the important New Age topics, from deciphering your horoscope to reading your runes, throwing the I Ching, channeling spirits, attracting health and wealth, understanding your dreams, and unearthing your past selves, as well as the usual yoga, meditation, and feng shui books. If you have a secret hankering to discover your inner person and learn your place in the Universe, Ruby can recommend a book that will show you how. Or she’ll show you herself. Just sign up for one of her classes.

  “Sally was on her best behavior.” I put down the sack containing Ruby’s doughnut and took an appreciative sniff. Ruby burns a different incense every day. Today, it smelled like cinnamon-spiced apple cider, a homey smell on a chilly December morning and a sweet accompaniment to the Christmassy fragrances in my shop. “She and Caitlin were soul mates from the get-go,” I added. “They discovered a secret bond. Fairies.”

  “Fairies?” Ruby stood up and brushed her red velour skirt. She was wearing a black turtleneck with a red silk scarf and high-heeled black boots today—her skyscraper boots, I call them. Her mass of red hair was piled up on her head. She looked like a towering inferno. “Really? Sally is into fairies?”

  Khat got up, too, stretched, and walked over to me.

  “So it seems,” I replied, bending over to stroke his dark ears. Ruby is another fairy aficionado. She has a shelf of fairy lore in the shop, a collection of fairy dolls in her guest bedroom, and a framed Tinker Bell poster in her bathroom. I chuckled. “Maybe you and Sally ought to get together and compare fairy tales.”

  “Maybe,” Ruby said without enthusiasm. She’s probably heard me complain about McQuaid’s ex too many times. She gave me a look. “Is she coming with us tonight to get the tree?”

  I nodded, straightened, and leaned against the door frame, taking an appreciative bite of my jelly doughnut. “But McQuaid isn’t.”

  “Meow,” remarked Khat in a meaningful tone. He much prefers eating (chopped liver or fish) to watching people eat.

  “Uh-oh,” Ruby said. “Because of Sally?”

  “Because he promised Charlie Lipman he’d go to Omaha to find somebody. I didn’t tell him so, but I’m glad he has the work, with Christmas bills on the horizon.” I made a face. “And with Sally here, he’s probably glad to get away.”

  Ruby went back to her bookshelf. “He won’t miss Saturday night’s party, will he?”

  “He’s coming home on Friday.” I eyed her. “Are you still game for tonight?”

  “Sure,” Ruby said. “Donna’s saving a tree for me, too. I may be a bit late, though. I need to stop at Castle Oaks. Mom’s having a little trouble.” She chuckled sadly. “A ‘little trouble’ is relative, of course.”

  Khat wound himself around my ankles, reminding me that it was cruel to eat in front of him.

  “Relative.” I ate the last of my doughnut. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

  “Hear what?” She picked up a copy of Rune Stones and Your Destiny, considered it for a moment, then propped it, partially open, on the shelf where she displays rune stones and other divining tools. Turning back to me, she added, “I ran into Sheila and Blackie last night. Did you know they’re seeing one another again?”

  “You’re kidding!” I exclaimed. “Really?”

  “Truly,” Ruby replied. “They were having supper at Beans’ Bar and Grill. And if you ask me, Blackie looked as if Sheila was all he wanted on his menu. She seemed pretty happy about it, too. They were holding hands under the table.”

  I shook my head. “Will wonders never cease,” I muttered.

  My friend Sheila Dawson is Pecan Springs’ chief of police, and a tough one at that. Since the city council appointed her to the job a few years ago, law enforcement funding is up and property crimes and motor vehicle accidents are down. Under Bubba Harris, the previous chief, the police department was a comfortable haven for good ol’ boys on the verge of retirement. With the funding, Sheila is rapidly turning it into a younger, stronger force that the entire community can be proud of. Sheila has had to arm-wrestle the city council for every penny, but even the most miserly, antifeminist council member grudgingly admits that Chief Dawson has put the department on the right track.

  Blackie Blackwell, on the other hand, is McQuaid’s poker and fishing buddy, a friendship that goes back at least fifteen years. As the Adams County sheriff, Blackie carries on a proud Blackwell family tradition. His father was sheriff back when the county was still largely rural, and his mother cooked for the prisoners and cleaned the jail. Both are warmly remembered by longtime residents, who would probably like to go back to those peaceful days, when vacationing families from Dallas and Houston came to fish in the San Marcos and Guadalupe rivers and sail on the Highland Lakes, and cattle rustling was the most significant crime.

  But Adams County is no longer just a scenic rural vacation destination. Pecan Springs is close enough to Austin (some forty minutes, depending on the traffic) to be considered a bedroom community, and urban sprawl is crawling in our direction. We’re located on the busy I-35 corridor, along which illegal drugs and illegal aliens are daily smuggled out of Mexico, and there are plenty of remote hideaways in the Hill Country for crystal meth labs, which Blackie aggressively targets. He has a sterling statewide reputation as a lawman’s lawman, and Adams County appreciates what they’ve got, which is why they recently elected him to his third term.

  That may also be why, when Sheila and Blackie first got together, their friends gave an enthusiastic cheer. Not only are they decent, likable people, but it seemed like a perfect match: two fine law-enforcement professionals, one the popular county sheriff, the other the police chief of the county’s largest town—but not always popular, partly because she’s a woman, partly because she’s had to clean house in the PSPD. Then they got engaged, and we were all delighted. But as time went on, Sheila began to back out of her bargain and finally broke off the engagement. It wasn’t their relationship, she said. It was their careers. Two cops in one family was one cop too many.

  Ruby raised her eyebrows at my lack of en
thusiasm. “I thought you’d be happy to hear that they’re back together again.”

  “I can’t decide,” I confessed. “If it lasts, sure, I’ll be thrilled. But I don’t think any of us wants to go through the misery of another breakup.”

  “I don’t have anything to say about it,” Ruby observed practically, “and neither do you. So we might as well be happy for them.”

  “I guess,” I said and looked down at Khat, who was sitting on my foot, watching me with a plaintive expression. “Breakfast?” I asked.

  To his credit, he didn’t say “It’s about time.” He merely rose with dignity and led the way to the kitchen, where I warmed his chopped liver in the microwave and set it down in front of him. “Enjoy,” I said. The bell over my shop door tinkled, and a customer came in, so I left Khat to his breakfast and went to help her.

  The customer bought one of Donna’s wreaths, a couple of Jim Long’s cookbooks, and some of the handcrafted paper we made in our papermaking workshop last summer. The purchase turned out to be a promising start to a pretty profitable day, and by the time I locked the door that afternoon and closed out the register, I was happy to see a tidy bundle of bills in the cash drawer, as well as a respectable sheaf of credit card slips. (If you’ve ever been in business for yourself, you’ll appreciate what that means.) Both the Crystal Cave and the tearoom did well, too, and Cass reported that the Thymely Gourmet had picked up another new client. A good day all the way around.

  On the family front, too, it looked like things were under control, for a change. McQuaid had turned in his grades and gone to the Austin airport to catch his flight to Omaha. Sally had volunteered to pick Caitlin up at school, and I had promised Brian I’d be waiting when his science club meeting ended. The four of us would meet for a pizza at Gino’s, then head out for Mistletoe Farm to get the tree and join the evening festivities.